The Undertaker's Widow

Part Three

Hell Week

Chapter 16.

It was almost three when Quinn signed in with the guard at the front desk of the Multnomah County Courthouse on the Sunday afternoon following his return from St. Jerome, then took the elevator to his chambers on the fifth floor. He was depressed and a little hung over, having had way too much to drink the night before. Quinn rarely drank excessively, but Laura would not take his calls and his small apartment with its ugly rented furniture had gotten him down.

Quinn hung up his raincoat and put on a pot of coffee. He was in for a solid afternoon of legal research and he hoped the caffeine would clear the cobwebs from his brain. The pretrial hearing in State v. Crease was set to start Monday afternoon. The defense had filed several motions. Quinn's ruling on three of them would have a significant impact on the trial. Mary Garrett was asking Quinn to suppress all of the evidence found during the search of the crime scene that had been made a week after the shootings. Ellen Crease's defense attorney was also asking Quinn to suppress certain statements as hearsay.

The State had filed only one motion of importance. Mary Garrett wanted to introduce evidence concerning Martin Jablonski's prior crimes. Cedric Riker opposed the introduction of this evidence.

Quinn organized the materials relating to each motion into a separate pile while he waited for the coffee to perk. When the coffee was ready, Quinn filled a mug and started reading the memos relating to the motion to suppress the evidence found at the crime scene. Three hours later, he was slogging through the police reports detailing Martin Jablonski's criminal history so he would have a better idea of how to handle the district attorney's motion. He finished deciphering Portland Police Officer J. Brademas's handwritten account of a six-year-old, extremely violent, home burglary and was about to start Officer K. Raptis's report of an older liquor store holdup when he heard the phone ringing in the outer office and saw one of his lines flashing.

"Hello."

"Is this Richard Quinn?"

"Yes."

"My name is Kyle Fletcher. I'm a detective in Missing Persons." Quinn straightened up, suddenly alert. "I'm looking into the disappearance of a woman named Andrea Chapman. Does that name ring a bell?"

Quinn's heart rate accelerated.

"Judge Quinn, you there?"

"Uh, yes. I was just thinking," Quinn said to stall for time while he tried to figure out why a policeman was calling him about Andrea.

"This woman disappeared last week while she was vacationing on the Caribbean island of St. Jerome. You were there the same time she was."

"That's right. I was speaking at a legal seminar."

Quinn wanted to forget about St. Jerome. His failure to tell the police about Andrea's murder haunted him. Detective Fletcher's call gave Quinn a chance to tell someone about the terrible thing that had happened in the cove.

"I believe Miss Chapman sat next to you on the flight from New York to the island. I got your name from the manifest." Quinn heard a deep sigh. "I'm stuck here calling everyone in first class. Then it's on to economy. If you could tell me what you remember about her, it would be a help."

Quinn wanted to tell the truth, but he was afraid. So much time had passed. If he confessed to witnessing the murder now, he had no idea of the consequences.

"Okay. Now I know whom you're talking about. I didn't remember her name. The woman who sat next to me on the flight from New York to St. Jerome designed belts. She was wearing a very attractive belt that she'd designed for some collection."

"That's her. What did you two talk about?"

"Not a lot. The type of things you discuss with a seat companion on a flight. I was reading a book for part of the time."

"Just what you remember."

"I believe she mentioned that she was flying back from a show for leather suppliers in Bologna, Italy. We talked about her job. That's about all I remember, except that she didn't like flying, but she had to because of her work."

"Did she tell you her plans on St. Jerome?"

Quinn was sweating. This was his last chance to tell Fletcher what had happened, but he could not do it.

"She was going to stay at a friend's villa," Quinn said. "I don't remember his name."

"That fits in with what I have so far. Did she mention someone she was going to meet or someone she knew on the island?"

Quinn felt sick and he hoped that his voice did not betray him.

"I don't remember her saying she was going to meet anyone. I got the impression that she just wanted to relax."

"Is there anything else you can recall?"

"No. I think that's it."

"Say, did you see her after the flight? On the island?"

Quinn froze. "What was that?" he asked to cover his hesitation. "You faded out there for a moment."

"Sorry. Must be my line here. I asked if you saw Miss Chapman after you landed. Maybe at your hotel?"

"No. Not after the airport."

"Okay. Well, thanks."

Quinn knew that he should hang up, but he could not help asking, "Uh, what happened? I mean, what do you think happened? She seemed like a nice person."

"What we know for sure is that the day after she landed she went to the beach late in the afternoon. We think she might have planned to meet someone, because she took two sets of snorkeling gear. However, the local police questioned the servants and she never said anything to them about meeting anyone.

"The St. Jerome Police tell me that there are lots of safe beaches on the island. Then you get some with real strong currents. A person could be swept out to sea. They get a tourist drowning every couple of years. There's warnings posted, but people don't listen. The locals think that's what happened."

"And you? Is that what you think?"

"No reason to think otherwise. Except, of course, there's the extra snorkeling gear. The cops did find her blanket and stuff along with one set of equipment, not two. And the cove where they found this stuff, it's supposed to be safe. Then, again, there have been several reported disappearances in it over the years. So who knows? Anyway, thanks for your time, Judge. I'll let you get back to your work."

Quinn hung up. His hands were sweaty and he was breathing hard. He had just lied to a police detective. If he was ever linked to Andrea ... But he wouldn't be.

If they knew that he was the person that Andrea was meeting, the detective would have questioned him further. Or would he? What if they did know and the conversation was a trap? The conversation could have been taped. He was getting a headache. Quinn stroked his temples. He should have told the detective what he knew, but anything he said would incriminate him. He could not call back, anyway, he suddenly realized. The detective had not left his phone number or the city he was calling from.

The call from the detective had drained Quinn of energy. He went into the bathroom in his chambers and took two aspirin. While he was washing them down, he saw his reflection in the mirror. He looked pale and shaken. Since his return from the island, the murder had taken on a dreamlike quality. Andrea still haunted his dreams, but her features were blurring and there were times when Quinn did not think about St. Jerome at all. The detective's call had made Quinn relive the horror in the cove and the cowardly way that he had dealt with it.

Chapter 17.

[1]

The attorneys were raring to go when Quinn took the bench Monday afternoon to hear the motions in State v. Crease. Cedric Riker looked bright-eyed and dressed for success. He was always most excited when the gallery was full and the press was in attendance. Mary Garrett looked intense. She was wearing a gray pinstriped suit that was all business.

It was Ellen Crease that Quinn studied most intently. Her black dress reflected a somber mood, but she seemed unafraid. Crease did not slump in her seat or look down as Frederick Gideon had. From the moment Quinn took the bench she sat square-shouldered and straight-backed, coolly confident and self-assured.

Quinn let his eyes rest on Crease for a moment too long. She sensed the judge's interest and turned her head toward him. Quinn colored and looked down at a pleading on the dais. He recovered his composure just as Lamar Hoyt, Jr., entered the courtroom. Quinn saw Junior smirk at Crease, who flushed with anger, held his stare long enough to let him know that she was not intimidated, then turned her attention to the proceedings. Just before she did, Quinn noticed Ryan Clark sitting in the back of the courtroom. Quinn had met Benjamin Gage's administrative assistant at a Republican fund-raiser. Quinn was not surprised to see Clark, given Gage's interest in the outcome of Crease's case.

"Good morning, Counsel, Senator," Quinn said. "For the record, this is the time set to discuss the motions filed by the parties in this case. Am I correct that only the motion to suppress the evidence found in Senator Crease's bedroom will require me to hear witnesses and that I'll be deciding Ms. Garrett's hearsay objections to the testimony of Karen Fargo and Conchita Jablonski after reading the briefs and affidavits you have submitted?"

"That's correct, Your Honor," Mary Garrett said. Riker nodded his agreement.

"Why don't you state your positions? Then we'll hear the witnesses in the motion to suppress."

Riker sat down and pulled a legal pad in front of him.

"We are asking the Court to suppress all of the evidence obtained as a result of the warrantless search of my client's bedroom by Detective Anthony and Gary Yoshida of the crime lab after the crime scene was released back to my client," Garrett told Quinn.

"I want to be clear on this," Quinn interrupted. "As I understand it, you have no objection to the introduction of any evidence found in the bedroom on the evening of the murder?"

"That's correct," Garrett responded. "The police were legally on the premises at that time. The bedroom was a crime scene, there were two dead bodies present. The situation changed when the bedroom was released back to Senator Crease. After that point, it became incumbent on the authorities to obtain a warrant to search the bedroom."

"I'm with you. Now, why don't you think the search was legal?"

"The obvious reason is that the search was conducted without a warrant when the police had adequate time to obtain one. Our second point is that James Allen, the houseman, was coerced into opening the locked bedroom for the police. Finally, even if he was not coerced, Mr. Allen had no authority to let the police into his employer's locked bedroom."

"Thank you, Ms. Garrett," Quinn said as he made some notes. "Mr. Riker?"

Riker stood slowly, then paused for effect before shaking his head.

"Your Honor, this whole motion is a ridiculous waste of time. There is a well-recognized exception to the warrant requirement that permits the police to search without a warrant if emergency conditions make an immediate warrantless search necessary to prevent the destruction of evidence. If Detective Anthony and Officer Yoshida had waited to search the bedroom, the most important evidence in this case would have been destroyed.

"Even if exigent circumstances did not exist, the entry into the bedroom was perfectly legal. The defendant was in eastern Oregon campaigning. In her absence, Mr. Allen was in charge of the house. He had authority to let people into the bedroom and he let Detective Anthony and Officer Yoshida into the bedroom willingly. The courts have long recognized that third parties may give binding consent to officials to search the premises of a defendant and seize evidence found inside the premises. This is an exception to the requirement that the police obtain a warrant before searching and to the requirement that the person searching have probable cause to believe there is evidence of a crime in the place searched."

"As I understand it," Quinn said, "it's the position of the defense that the person who gave consent did not have the actual authority to give it."

"We disagree with that assertion, but it would make no difference if the defense was correct, Your Honor. Even if Mr. Allen did not have actual authority to let the officers into the bedroom, he appeared to have that authority. As the Court knows, if a police officer has a reasonable belief that a person has authority to consent to a search, a warrantless search will be legal, even if it turns out that the officer was mistaken."

"Okay. Why don't you call your first witness, Ms. Garrett?"

"Senator Crease calls James Allen, Your Honor."

James Allen took the oath and sat in the witness box. He looked uneasy.

"Mr. Allen, how are you employed?"

"I work . . . worked for Mr. Lamar Hoyt as his houseman until his death. I am now employed in that same capacity for your client, Ms. Crease."

"Do you remember the time, several days after Mr. Hoyt was murdered, when Detective Anthony and an Officer Yoshida came to the estate and told you that they wanted to reenter the master bedroom?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Did either gentleman show you a search warrant?"

"No."

"What reason did they give you for wishing to look at the room?"

"Detective Anthony told me that there were loose ends in the investigation that needed to be tied up and that they had to look at the bedroom again to do that. He was never very specific."

"Where was Senator Crease on that day?"

"She was campaigning in eastern Oregon."

"What did you tell Detective Anthony when he asked to look in the bedroom?"

"I told him that Ms. Crease had given me strict orders to let no one into the bedroom except the cleaning people, who were coming the next day."

"What happened when you told Detective Anthony that you had strict orders not to let anyone but the cleaners into the bedroom?"

"He said that Ms. Crease couldn't have meant to keep out the police. He said she probably just wanted to keep reporters out."

"What happened next?"

"I told the detective that he was probably right, but I didn't feel that I could let him in without speaking to Ms. Crease, so I tried to get in touch with her at her hotel in Pendleton. Unfortunately, she was not in."

"What happened after you told the detective that you couldn't reach Senator Crease?"

Allen looked nervous. He licked his lips. "Uh, well, at that point, Detective Anthony became quite agitated. He reminded me that he was investigating Mr. Hoyt's murder and said that any evidence in the room would be destroyed by the cleaners if I waited to talk to Ms. Crease before letting them into the room."

"You said that Detective Anthony grew agitated when you refused to let him into the bedroom. Please describe his demeanor."

"His tone grew sharp and he leaned very close to me. He was quite insistent."

"What did you do after his demeanor changed?"

"I ... I didn't want to impede the investigation, so I gave Detective Anthony the key to the bedroom."

"Thank you, Mr. Allen. Your witness, Counselor."

Riker stood up and walked over to James Allen.

"Good morning, Mr. Allen," he said in a tone that lacked sincerity. Allen nodded.

"It's in your best interest to say things that help the defendant, isn't it?"

"Pardon me, sir?" Allen asked, clearly offended by the question.

"The defendant pays your salary. You're dependent on her for your living, for the roof over your head?"

"I have testified to the truth, Mr. Riker," Allen answered with great dignity.

"Certainly. But what I've said is true, is it not?"

Allen started to say something, then thought better of it and ended by answering, "Yes," tersely.

Riker opened a thick folder and reviewed some papers. He selected one of them and looked up at the witness.

"Mr. Allen, have you ever been convicted of a crime?"

Allen paled and answered, "Yes," in a shaky voice.

"What crime was that?"

"Man . . . manslaughter."

"You stabbed a man to death in a bar fight, did you not?"

Allen looked like he was going to be sick.

"Please instruct Mr. Allen to answer, Your Honor," Riker asked the Court.

"Please answer the question," Quinn instructed the witness.

"That is true," Allen answered.

"Did you know about this?" Garrett whispered to Crease.

"Yes, but I forgot. It's ancient history. James is gay. When he was eighteen, two men attacked him. They were gay bashing. James had a knife and he fought them off. Lamar said that it would have been self-defense, but James ran the men down after they quit the fight and killed one of them. He gave James a break when he got out of prison and hired him. He hasn't been in trouble since."

"You're the housekeeper at the Hoyt estate, right?" Riker asked Allen.

"Yes."

"'When Mr. Hoyt and the defendant were away, you were in charge of the house, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"That's why you had the keys to all the rooms, including the bedroom?"

"Yes."

"And you could go into any room in the house to clean or to get something, right?"

"Yes."

"In fact, it was part of your duties to let people, like the cleaners, into various rooms in the house, including the bedroom, when Mr. Hoyt and the defendant were away?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Allen, did you like Mr. Hoyt?"

"Yes, sir."

"You'd worked for him for more than twenty years?"

"Yes."

"And you wanted his killer brought to justice?"

"Yes."

"How did you feel when Detective Anthony told you that keeping him and Officer Yoshida out of the bedroom might lead to the destruction of evidence that could prove who killed Mr. Hoyt?"

"I . . . Well, I didn't want to be responsible for something like that."

"So you wanted the officers to enter that bedroom, didn't you?"

"I ... I guess . . . Yes. I wanted to help."

"Thank you, Mr. Allen," Riker said before turning away from the witness and returning to his seat. Quinn noted Riker's satisfied smile and the brief look of concern on Garrett's face.

"If I might, Your Honor," Garrett said.

"Certainly."

"Mr. Allen, your instructions from Senator Crease were quite explicit, were they not? Didn't she tell you to keep the bedroom locked and let no one but the cleaners into it?"

"Those were my instructions."

"She did not tell you to make an exception for the police, did she?"

"No."

"You made it clear to the officers what your instructions were?"

"Yes."

"And when you refused Detective Anthony admission, that is when he became agitated, sharp with you and demanding?"

"Yes."

"Did his tone have anything to do with your decision to give him the bedroom key?"

"Well, he was a policeman and he seemed very upset with me. I didn't feel that I could refuse him."

"Nothing further."

Riker was already on his feet. "Mr. Allen, did the defendant give you specific instructions to keep the police out of the bedroom."

"No."

"So you never discussed with the defendant what you should do if a policeman came to the house and needed access to the bedroom so he could try to secure evidence that would help find Lamar Hoyt's murderer?"

"No."

"Before you gave Detective Anthony the key, did you try to figure out what the defendant would have told you if you had been successful in talking to her in Pendleton?"

"I . . . Yes, I did."

"Was it your impression that the defendant wanted her husband's killer found?"

"Most assuredly."

"So you concluded that she would never want to impede the investigation, didn't you? That she would have gladly allowed the police access to that bedroom if it would help find her husband's killer?"

Allen looked down and answered, "Yes," in a tone so low that Quinn had trouble hearing him.

"And that was why you gave Detective Anthony the key, wasn't it? Not because he grew sharp with you, but because you realized that his agitation stemmed from his desire to solve the murder of your employer of twenty years? Isn't that so?"

"I ... I guess . . . Yes, that had a lot to do with it."

"Thank you, Mr. Allen," Riker said with a self-satisfied smile.

Quinn asked Mary Garrett if she had any other questions for the witness. Garrett thought about trying to rehabilitate Allen, but she realized that the damage had already been done. She dismissed the witness. Allen took a seat in the back of the courtroom. He looked very upset.

"How bad were we hurt?" Crease asked in a whisper.

"Riker did a good job. We can argue that Allen was bullied into consenting to the search, but Riker can argue that he was only doing what he thought was best and that he had concluded that you would have consented, too."

"Would it do any good to call me as a witness?" Crease asked. "I definitely told Jim to keep the bedroom locked, except to let in the cleaners."

"Riker would ask you if you intended to keep out police officials who were trying to solve the murder of your husband," Garrett answered. "We both know how you would answer that question."

"Any more witnesses, Ms. Garrett?" Quinn asked.

"No, Your Honor."

"Then let's hear from your people, Mr. Riker."

"The State calls Lou Anthony, Your Honor."

The bailiff went into the hall and returned with the detective. The bailiff gave Anthony the oath, then motioned him toward the witness box. Quinn thought that the detective seemed very uncomfortable and the judge noticed that the witness avoided looking at Ellen Crease.

"Detective Anthony, are you the detective in charge of the investigation into the death of Lamar Hoyt?" Riker asked after establishing Anthony's background in police work.

"Yes, sir."

"Were you at the crime scene on the evening of January seventh?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you interview the defendant and speak to the medical examiner, forensic experts and other investigators?"

"Yes, sir."

"What conclusion did you come to about the defendant's responsibility for the death of her husband and Martin Jablonski on the evening of the shooting?"

"On the evening of January seventh, I concluded that a burglar, who we later learned was an ex-convict named Martin Jablonski, had broken into the home of Mr. Hoyt and the defendant to commit a burglary and had shot Mr. Hoyt during its commission. I also concluded that the defendant shot and killed Mr. Jablonski to protect herself."

"Did you believe that Mr. Jablonski was working alone?"

"At that time, yes."

"Did you later suspect that Mr. Jablonski had been hired to break into the Hoyt estate and shoot Mr. Hoyt?"

"Yes."

"What caused you to form that opinion?"

"During a search of Mr. Jablonski's apartment, I found ten thousand dollars that his wife said Jablonski received shortly before the break-in."

"Subsequent to learning about the ten thousand dollars, did you become aware of evidence that called into question the defendant's version of the shooting?"

"Yes, sir. Gary Yoshida, a forensic expert in our crime lab, told me that blood spatter evidence at the crime scene contradicted the defendant's version of the way the shooting occurred."

"When did Officer Yoshida tell you about the blood spatter evidence?"

"On January 14, a week after the shooting."

"Did Officer Yoshida tell you he needed to visit the crime scene to confirm his suspicions about the blood spatter evidence?"

"Yes. He said that he had to see the scene in three dimensions. His initial conclusions were drawn from examinations of photographs and he felt that wasn't good enough."

"When Officer Yoshida informed you that he needed to see the bedroom again to confirm his suspicions about the blood spatter, did you drive to the estate immediately?"

"Yes."

"Why did you go so quickly?"

"It had been a while since the murder and we had just turned the scene back to the defendant. We were both worried that the scene had been altered. I felt time was of the essence."

"What happened at the estate?"

"Mr. Allen, the housekeeper, let us in. He told us that the bedroom was going to be cleaned the next day. I asked for his consent to enter the bedroom with Officer Yoshida so we could find any evidence that might exist before the cleaners destroyed it. He gave his consent and we conducted our investigation."

"Why didn't you get a search warrant for the bedroom?"

"There wasn't any reason to do that. We are taught about the law of search and seizure at the Police Academy and we get updates from time to time. It has always been my understanding that a warrant was not necessary if someone with the authority to give it consents to a search of the premises."

"Did you believe that Mr. Allen had the authority to consent to your entry into the bedroom?"

"Yes, sir. He was the housekeeper. He had the key. The defendant was away campaigning. He was the only one home."

"No further questions. Thank you, Detective."

"What's your take on Anthony? Is he an honest cop?" Garrett asked Crease in a whisper.

Crease thought about the question before answering. Then she leaned close to her attorney.

"Lou's a straight arrow. He won't lie."

Garrett looked at the witness.

"As I understand your testimony, Detective, you and Officer Yoshida went to the Hoyt estate, James Allen met you, you told him you wanted to enter the bedroom, he said that was great and he took you upstairs and let you in. Do I have that right?"

"No, ma'am. That is not what happened."

Garrett looked astonished. "Oh! What part do I have wrong?"

"When I first asked Mr. Allen if Officer Yoshida and I could go into the bedroom, he wasn't sure that he could let us in."

"In fact, he specifically told you, did he not, that the room was locked and that Senator Crease had instructed him to unlock the room only for the cleaners?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Did you take 'no' for an answer?"

"No, because the defendant had no reason to believe we would need to take a second look at the room when she left for eastern Oregon. I assumed that she wouldn't want to block a police investigation."

"Well, Detective, weren't you also assuming at this time that Senator Crease may have hired Martin Jablonski to kill her husband?"

"That was a theory."

"If that was true, she would have every reason to impede a police investigation, wouldn't she?"

Anthony hesitated before answering, "I guess so."

"And every reason to want to forbid you access to the crime scene."

Anthony did not know what to say.

"I'll assume your lack of response constitutes agreement, Detective," Garrett said.

"Objection," said Riker, who was obviously upset by the course of Garrett's examination. "Detective Anthony did not just agree. Ms. Garrett is putting words in his mouth."

"Sustained," Quinn said. "Detective, we need a yes or no for the record."

Anthony looked helpless. Finally, he answered, "I guess she would have a reason to deny us access to the room if she was the killer."

Garrett's lips twitched. It was bad form to grin in court when you scored points, so she had to suppress a big smile.

"It is true, is it not, that Mr. Allen tried to reach Senator Crease by phone to see if she would agree to let you in the room, but he was unable to talk to her?"

"Yes."

"He then reiterated to you that his instructions were to keep everyone but the cleaners out of the room?"

"Yes."

"That upset you, didn't it?"

"I wasn't upset."

"You didn't become agitated and raise your voice?"

"I ... I was concerned about the cleaners and I was certain that ... I mean, well, it seemed to me that Senator Crease would have let us in if she was asked. That she wouldn't have objected to the police going in."

"Even though you just said that she had every reason to keep out the police if she was a murderer?"

"I . . . Honestly, that didn't go through my mind, about her refusing."

"You just wanted to get into the room?"

"Yes."

"So you applied pressure to Mr. Allen."

"No."

"You didn't lean into him?"

"I may have."

"You didn't sound annoyed?"

"I . . . That may be so. I was concerned."

"You made Mr. Allen change his mind, did you not?"

"He changed his mind. I couldn't force him. I didn't. It was his decision."

"You're telling Judge Quinn that you didn't use your authority as a policeman and your size to intimidate Mr. Allen?"

"No. It wasn't that way."

Garrett hesitated for a moment. Then she said, "No further questions, Your Honor."

Quinn studied the detective. He sounded a little desperate, but he also sounded like an honest cop. The judge did not doubt that Anthony had applied some pressure to Allen to convince him to change his mind, but it made a difference if the detective simply used his powers of persuasion as opposed to coercing the housekeeper to open the bedroom door. However, the line between persuasion and coercion could be very thin when the person who wants a result is a police officer.

"Our next witness will take a while, Your Honor," Cedric Riker said. "This might be a good time to break."

"Who is the witness?"

"Officer Yoshida. He'll be explaining the basis for probable cause and talking about the exigent circumstances."

"All right. Let's break for the day. I'll see everyone at nine in the morning."

[2]

Quinn did not want to go back to his barren apartment, so he stayed in his chambers to work on cases that he had not been able to get to because of State v. Crease. The corridors of the courthouse were deserted when Quinn turned out the lights in his chambers and locked the door shortly before seven. The courthouse floors were marble and the ceilings were high. The slightest noise was magnified. At night, the silence in the darkened halls was eerie. Quinn walked down the corridor. The elevators were around the corner. When he was almost at the end of the hall, Quinn paused. He thought he heard a footfall. He stopped to listen, but the hall was silent. Maybe a security guard was walking rounds on the floor below. Sound carried in odd ways in an empty building at night.

Quinn turned the corner. There was a bank of two elevators on either side of the wide marble stairs. Just as the judge pressed the Down button to summon one a scraping sound made Quinn's breath catch in his chest. He stepped away from the elevators and peered down the deserted hallway in both directions. Quinn jumped, then sagged, startled by the bell that signaled the arrival of the elevator.

Quinn took the car to the lobby. The empty courthouse had spooked him and the dark, deserted streets looked threatening. The rain had stopped, but a stiff wind forced Quinn to turn up the collar of his raincoat. He hurried along the three blocks between the courthouse and the garage where the county rented parking spaces for the judges.

During the ride home, Quinn tried to think about the evidence he had heard, but he found himself thinking about Laura and how lonely he would be all evening. Quinn decided to call Laura as soon as he got home. Maybe she was ready to talk about their future.

Quinn opened his door and turned on the light. He shut and locked the door. A man in a black ski mask, turtleneck and jeans stepped out of the judge's bedroom and pointed a gun at Quinn.

"Stay calm,'' the man said. "I'm not here to hurt you or rob you, but I will hurt you if you don't do as you're told. If you're smart, I'll be gone in a few minutes and you'll be just fine. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," Quinn answered, trying to keep his tone neutral so the gunman would not hear how frightened he was.

The intruder gestured toward a chair that stood in front of a low coffee table.

"Sit down."

Quinn did as he was told.

"How did Andrea Chapman die?" the man asked.

"I told the police that I don't know anything about that."

The man reached behind his back and pulled a manila envelope out of his waistband. He tossed it onto the coffee table.

"Open it," he commanded.

Quinn raised the flap.

"Now, take out the photographs."

Quinn removed three 8V2 by 11 black-and-white photographs. All three shots showed Quinn and Andrea Chapman in the Cove of Lost Souls. Quinn's stomach rolled. The man pulled back the hammer of the gun and pointed the barrel at Quinn's head. Quinn blanched.

"I repeat, how did Andrea Chapman die?"

"She was murdered," Quinn stammered.

"Yes, but how was she murdered?"

"Drowning. She was drowned."

There was a slit for the mouth in the ski mask and Quinn saw the man's lips curl into a cruel grin.

"I hear that drowning is a peaceful way to die once you give in to it. Andrea didn't have it that easy."

The man paused as if recalling a fond memory. When he spoke again, it was in the tone that confidants use with one another.

"Andrea's skin was smooth and her body was very firm. You would have enjoyed playing with her. I did. Oh, she cried and begged at first, but I soon put an end to that. Do you want to know how?"

This time the man's smile was wide and self-satisfied. Quinn's stomach clenched and bile rose in his throat. The man chuckled.

"Don't go in much for rough foreplay, do you? It's one of my favorite things. After a while Andrea was willing to do anything I asked, even to the point of inventing her own little sex games, to avoid the pain."

The man paused. He eyed Quinn curiously, holding the judge's gaze the way a hypnotist traps his subject. The smile faded suddenly.

"Unfortunately, I had business to attend to, so I was forced to rape Andrea brutally, several times. Then I selected a very sharp hunting knife and engaged in some creative dismemberment."

Quinn gagged and fought with all his might to keep from throwing up.

"Don't worry, Judge. You won't have to see any pictures. In fact, if you do as you're told, neither you nor anyone else will ever view my handiwork. But if you disobey me there will be terrible consequences for you.

"Tell me, Judge, what do you think would happen if the St. Jerome Police received an anonymous call telling them where to find the body of Andrea Chapman? What do you think would happen if the St. Jerome Police received copies of these photographs? Did you know that there is an extradition treaty between the United States and St. Jerome? Did you know that hanging is the punishment for murder on St. Jerome?"

Quinn had trouble breathing. He felt as if his body had turned to water.

"What do you want from me?" Quinn managed.

"One thing. If you do that one thing, you'll be safe. If you don't, Andrea Chapman's body will be found, the police will get these pictures and you will rot in a rat-infested prison on St. Jerome until the day you are hanged by the neck in the prison courtyard. Now, ask me what the one thing is."

Quinn hesitated.

"Come on. You can do it. Ask me how you can save your life."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Everything in your power to see that Ellen Crease is convicted of the murder of her husband. Once the jury returns a verdict of guilty, Andrea Chapman'6 body will disappear forever and all copies of the photographs you are holding will be destroyed."

"I . . . I can t rig the trial. She could be sentenced to death."

"So could you. Do you have an alibi for the day Andrea died? Can you explain where you went in your rented car?" The man walked over to Quinn and held out his hand. "Please hand me the photographs, Judge."

Quinn's hand shook as he picked up the pictures. The man took them and walked to the front door.

"'You know what you have to do to save your life. Keep your mouth shut, do it, and you'll survive."

The door closed and the man was gone. Quinn concentrated on fighting the nausea, but it was no good. He raced into the bathroom and threw up several times. Then he collapsed on the bathroom floor. Quinn remembered Andrea's smile, her laugh. An image of her running toward the sea came to him unbidden. Then, superimposed on that vision was an image of her body beaten and mutilated. Quinn squeezed his eyes shut and willed the vision away. He leaned against the bathroom wall and breathed deeply.

After a while Quinn struggled to his feet, cupped his hands and gulped cold water from the tap, then splashed it on his face. He had almost regained his composure when he remembered the call from the detective. Quinn had told him that he had not seen Andrea after he left the airport. The photographs would destroy him.

Quinn went into his kitchen and poured a glass of Scotch, which he drank quickly. The Scotch burned away some of his fear. Quinn took the liquor bottle into the living room, refilled his glass and collapsed on the couch. He reviewed everything that had happened to him since Andrea sat next to him on the plane trip to St. Jerome.

The first thought that occurred to Quinn was chilling. Until this evening, Quinn believed that Andrea Chapman's murder was not connected to him in any way.

Now Quinn knew that Andrea Chapman had been killed to set him up. It was the only way to explain what happened to Laura in Miami. The people who wanted Crease convicted had learned about Quinn's trip to St. Jerome. They had lured Laura to Miami with a fat retainer check so they could make certain that the first-class seat next to Quinn would be vacant. He had been played for a fool from the beginning.

[3]

Frank Price eyed Quinn as he let him into the apartment. The judge's tie was loose, his suit coat was rumpled and there were stains on his wrinkled white shirt. His complexion was pasty and there were dark shadows under his eyes.

"For someone who's just been on vacation in a tropical paradise, you don't look so hot."

"Too much work," Quinn mumbled without conviction. Price gave him a harder look.

"How are things with you and Laura?" Price asked as he led Quinn into the living room.

"Fine. Everything is fine," Quinn said.

Only after he answered did it occur to Quinn that Price had asked about the health of his relationship with Laura and not the usual small-talk question about the state of his wife's health. Quinn wondered if Laura had talked to Frank at work. Price was watching him closely.

"We're separated," Quinn confessed.

Suddenly, Price looked every bit of his eighty years.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said.

Quinn heard a slight tremor in Price's voice. Quinn knew that the old man loved him and hoped he would have a good marriage. He could see how much his separation from Laura hurt Frank.

"I'm living in an apartment. It's just temporary."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Quinn shook his head. "We'll work it out. I still love her. I think she loves me."

"If you need my help I'm always here for you."

"I know that."

"I put up some coffee, but you look like you can use something stronger."

Quinn wanted a glass of Scotch, then thought better of it.

"Coffee will be fine."

Price carried two mugs of steaming coffee into the living room.

"I came for some information and I need it in confidence," he told Price.

"Oh?"

Quinn wrapped his large hands around the mug for warmth.

"I'm hearing the pretrial motions in Ellen Crease's case. Do you know her?"

"We've met at political functions and I know people who know her. We're not friends."

"What about her husband, Lamar Hoyt?"

"He was a major contributor to the Republican Party. I've had dinner with him."

"Frank, can you think of anyone with a grudge against Ellen Crease? I'm talking about something very serious. Something that would motivate a person to want to hurt Crease very badly."

Price was clearly uncomfortable.

"This is highly irregular, Dick. This extra-judicial inquiry into the background of a defendant whose case you're hearing. Do you mind telling me what prompted this visit?"

"I ... I can't explain why I'm here. You're going to have to take it on faith that the information I'm asking for is crucial to a decision I have to make."

"If you're in some kind of trouble . . . ," Price started.

"Frank, I know I can trust you. I just can't confide in you."

"Does this have anything to do with Laura?"

"No," Quinn lied.

Price hesitated for a moment, but he could see how desperate Quinn looked.

"Ellen Crease has always been confrontational and she's made several political enemies, even in her own party. We never minded her ambition when she was running aggressive campaigns against Democratic opponents, though I, and others, did find her methods objectionable on occasion, but I can tell you that she has not endeared herself to the party by challenging an incumbent Republican senator."

"How did she get away with going after Gage?"

"Crease doesn't feel that she's accountable to anyone. She has a very committed following on the far right and her husband's money."

"Is there anyone you can think of who would be so upset with Crease that he would try to have her killed?"

"Why do you need to know that?"

"What if the man who broke into the Hoyt mansion came to kill Ellen Crease and not Lamar Hoyt? Crease would be innocent."

"Dick, do you realize what you're doing? You're a judge, for Christ's sake. You have to remain impartial. You have no business playing detective like this. In fact, you're violating your oath by taking sides in this case."

"I know that, and I can't explain why I'm asking you these questions. Please, Frank, I need your help."

"What have you gotten yourself into?"

Quinn looked away. Price was very troubled. For a moment, Quinn worried that he was going to end the meeting. Then Price said, "There are two people I can think of who would have the motive and personality to do what you're suggesting. Lamar Hoyt, Jr., was a constant source of concern to Lamar since he was a child. He is irresponsible and he has a history of violence. I know of two assault charges that Lamar was able to settle out of court by paying off the complaining witnesses. Junior has been quite vocal about his hatred of his stepmother. I assume you've heard about the will contest?"

Quinn nodded.

"Then, there's Benjamin Gage. Have you heard the rumors about his connection to Otto Keeler's death?"

"I never paid that much attention to them."

"I have no idea if there's any truth to them, but they won't go away. Gage made his fortune in the computer industry with a company called StarData. Otto Keeler and Gage started the company. For a while, StarData looked like it might take off, but it experienced a serious funding problem. Just when things looked darkest, the StarData building burned down. Otto Keeler was killed in the blaze. Gage assumed total control over the company and he used the millions the company received from Keeler's key man insurance and the fire insurance to help StarData turn the corner financially. The origin of the fire was unquestionably arson and there was no reason anyone uncovered for Keeler sleeping in the building on the evening of the blaze. There was never any evidence connecting Gage to the fire, but the police took a very hard look at him for a long time.

"Other than Gage and Lamar, Jr., I can't think of anyone else who would have a reason to try to do what you're suggesting."

Quinn stood. He looked drained and distant. Price gripped Quinn's shoulders.

"Let me help you, Dick."

Quinn smiled sadly. Then he embraced Price. "I love you, Frank. But I've got to do this on my own."

Quinn let Price go and headed for the door. "If you change your mind . . . ," Price said. "I know," Quinn answered.

Chapter 18.

"Officer Yoshida, how are you employed?" Cedric Riker asked.

"I'm a criminalist with the Oregon State Police Forensic Laboratory in Portland."

"Please give Judge Quinn your academic background."

Yoshida turned toward Quinn. He had testified in his court on a few occasions and was perfectly relaxed on the witness stand.

"I graduated from Portland State University with a B. S. in chemistry in 1989 and returned to PSU for courses in genetic biology and forensic DNA analysis. From 1989 to 1990, I worked as an analytical chemist. Then, in 1990, I became an Oregon State Police officer assigned to the crime lab."

"Over the years, have you had training in crime scene investigation and, more specifically, in the analysis of bloodstain patterns?"

"Yes, sir. I attended the Oregon State Medical Examiners' death investigation class in 1990, a blood pattern analysis training program at the Police Academy in 1991, an advanced crime scene training program in 1992, and I completed a basic, intermediate and advanced serology training program in 1992. Over the years, I have read numerous articles in the area and attended many seminars where these subjects were discussed."

"As part of your duties, do you go to crime scenes and collect evidence?"

"Yes."

"How many crime scenes have you investigated?"

Yoshida laughed. "Gosh, I don't know. I never kept a count. It's a lot, though. I investigate several homicides each year. Then, there are other scenes."

"Okay. Now, were you one of the criminalists who went to the Hoyt estate on the evening that Lamar Hoyt and Martin Jablonski were shot to death?"

"I was."

"Please describe the scene forjudge Quinn."

Yoshida left the witness box and walked over to a large diagram of the murder scene that he had prepared. The diagram was resting on an easel.

"The crime scene we are interested in is the master bedroom on the second floor of Mr. Hoyt's mansion. To get to that room, you climb a set of stairs to the second floor, then go down a long corridor in a westerly direction."

Yoshida picked up a wooden pointer and placed its tip on a section of the drawing that represented the door to the hall.

"The master bedroom itself is a rectangle. The door between the bedroom and the hall is in the east wall at the southeast corner of the bedroom."

Yoshida moved his pointer to the bathroom doorway.

"The northern wall in the hall is also the south wall of the bathroom. When you enter the bedroom, you can see the bathroom door if you look to your right."

Yoshida moved the pointer again.

"If you are standing in the doorway and you look directly across the room, you'll see the west wall. A good portion of that wall is a large window with a view of the pool and part of the yard. Halfway between the west and east walls is a king-size bed. The headboard touches the north wall. Directly across from the foot of the bed is an armoire approximately seven feet high. It contains a television and its back touches the south wall. My information from the first officers on the scene and an interview with the houseman, James Allen, is that the lights in the room were off when the crime occurred and that the television was also off."

"When you entered the crime scene, what did you see?"

Yoshida pointed to a stick figure that had been positioned between the small box that represented the armoire and the slightly larger box that represented the king-size bed.

"The first thing I saw was the body of Martin Jablonski. He was facedown with his feet almost touching the armoire and his head facing the bed. There was a pool of blood under his body approximately ten feet from the foot of the bed and one foot from the west-facing side of the armoire. There was also a .45-caliber handgun lying on the floor near Mr. Jablonski's right hand."

"Did you determine how Mr. Jablonski was killed?"

"Yes, sir. The defendant told the investigating officers that she shot Mr. Jablonski twice with a Smith & Wesson .38 snubnose loaded with hollow point bullets. When Mr. Jablonski was autopsied, the medical examiner recovered two bullets that had lodged in the body. One was recovered from Mr. Jablonski's head and the other from his torso. They were the type of bullet that the defendant described. Ballistics tests confirmed that the defendant's gun, which was recovered at the scene, fired the two shots."

"Why didn't the bullets exit the body?" Riker asked.

"Hollow point bullets are designed to stay inside the body so they can bounce around and cause more damage."

"Did you see another body in the room?"

"Yes, sir. The body of Lamar Hoyt was sprawled on his back on the bed. I was told that he had been shot while in the bed, but that the defendant had been found holding him with his head in her lap. From blood spatter patterns on the headboard and bed, I concluded that Mr. Hoyt was probably sitting up on the east side of the bed when he was shot. Then he fell sideways onto the west side of the bed. The defendant pulled him even further sideways when she sat down and cradled his head."

"Did ballistics tests identify the .45-caliber handgun found next to Mr. Jablonski as the weapon that was used to kill Lamar Hoyt?"

"Yes."

"Now, Officer Yoshida, did the defendant explain what happened on the evening of the shooting?"

"Yes, sir. To Detective Anthony."

"Please tell the Court how the shooting scenario was explained to you."

"As I understood the defendant's version, she and Mr. Hoyt had engaged in sexual intercourse. The defendant has the side of the bed closest to the window. She stated that after they finished, she got up from the bed, went to the window in the west wall, then crossed in front of the bed and entered the bathroom, turned on the bathroom light and washed up.

"After finishing in the bathroom, she put on her nightgown, turned off the bathroom light and crossed back in front of the bed. She got back in the bed on her side and talked with Mr. Hoyt for a while. As they were talking, the door opened and Mr. Jablonski entered the room. The defendant said she saw that Mr. Jablonski was armed, so she ducked over her side of the bed and secured the .38 that she keeps under it. She heard three shots and came up firing. Mr. Jablonski fell and she turned her attention to her husband, whom she determined to be dead."

"Officer Yoshida, when you looked at the crime scene on the evening of the shootings, did you see anything that called the defendant's version of the shootings into question?"

Yoshida looked embarrassed.

"The evidence was there. I just didn't pick up on it."

"What did you conclude on the evening of the crime?"

"That the defendant was telling the truth."

Yoshida's embarrassment deepened. He looked up at Quinn and tried to explain his failure to correctly interpret the crime scene's story.

"Everyone thought we were dealing with a burglary that went wrong. I mean, Jablonski was dead, there was no question his gun fired the shots that killed Mr. Hoyt. I guess I just assumed there was nothing to look for."

"Did something happen after the first crime scene investigation that caused you to question your first impression?" Riker asked.

"Yes, sir. I took a second look at the evidence while I was writing my report."

"When you reexamined the evidence, did you discover something you'd missed the first time around?"

"I did."

"What was that, Officer Yoshida?"

"I spotted a blood spatter pattern in two of the crime scene photographs that had not made an impression on me when I was at the scene. It made me question the defendant's story of how the shooting of Martin Jablonski occurred."

"Did you tell Detective Anthony that you had to visit the scene again?"

"Yes. I needed to see everything again in three dimensions to confirm my suspicions."

"Did you feel time was of the essence?"

"I did. It was already a week since the shooting and I was afraid that the blood pattern would be destroyed or contaminated."

"Can you explain to the judge what you can tell from blood spatter analysis that is relevant to this case?"

"Certainly," Yoshida told Riker before addressing the judge. "If I asked you to tell me what shape a drop of blood takes when it falls straight down, you would probably tell me that it would look like a teardrop, but that is a popular misconception. Actually, falling drops of blood are shaped like a sphere. The type of surface the drop strikes and the angle at which it hits affect the pattern the drop makes when it strikes a surface.

"If a drop of blood falls straight down at a ninety-degree angle it should leave a pattern that looks like a circle. As the degree of the angle changes so that the drop is hitting the surface at an angle that is moving from the vertical to the horizontal, the pattern will become more and more elongated. There is an equation that will give you the angle of impact using measurements of the length and width of the bloodstain. This helps a forensic scientist determine if the victim was standing or sitting when his blood was spattered onto a surface. You can * also tell the direction in which the blood was cast by examining the shape of the blood drop after it strikes a surface."

Yoshida placed blowups of two crime scene photographs on the easel. The first had been taken from the west side of the room shooting back toward the hall. It showed Martin Jablonski's body in front of the armoire. The second photograph was a close-up of the west-facing side of the armoire. Quinn could see a discoloration on the side of the armoire approximately six feet from the floor in the first photograph. In the close-up, the discoloration could clearly be seen as a fine spray of blood.

"When a person is struck with sufficient force to cause blood to spatter, the blood may spatter at low, medium or high velocity," Yoshida instructed Quinn. "If I punched you in the nose, the spatter would likely be low-velocity and would not carry very far. If the force is stronger, say because I use an object like a club or a brick, the blow may result in a medium-velocity pattern. Gunshots create high-velocity spatter patterns with an extremely high percentage of very fine blood specks. The result is a mistlike dispersion similar to an aerosol spray. Because of their low mass, these particles seldom travel a horizontal distance of over three or four feet."

Yoshida put the tip of the pointer on the spatter pattern in the first blowup.

"The first bullet that hit Mr. Jablonski struck him in the right temple. From the high-velocity spatter pattern on the side of the armoire, I conclude that Jablonski was struck by that bullet when he was standing with the right side of his head approximately one foot from the side of the armoire facing directly forward toward the bed. When the bullet struck Mr. Jablonski in the temple area on the right side of his head, his blood sprayed onto the west-facing side of the armoire. He had to be close to the armoire for the blood to spray onto it.

"Now, here is the problem," Yoshida continued. "I've lined up the angles. For the bullet to enter Mr. Jablonski's right temple at an angle that would leave the spray pattern on the west-facing side of the armoire, the shot had to come from the bathroom, not the west side of the bed."

Movement in the corridor outside the courtroom caught Quinn's eye. He turned pale and his breath caught in his chest. The woman who had passed by the door reminded him of Andrea Chapman.

Cedric Riker picked up a brown paper bag and turned to Yoshida. Quinn tried to calm down so he could pay attention to the testimony. The woman could not have been Andrea, Quinn told himself. Andrea Chapman was dead. The woman he saw simply resembled Andrea. She had passed by quickly, the distance between the bench and the corridor was considerable. The glass in the door must have distorted the woman's image. Quinn wrenched his attention back to the testimony.

" Officer Yoshida, I am handing you State's exhibit 113. What is that?"

Yoshida pulled a white nightgown out of the bag. The front was saturated with dried blood, but the back was only covered with a fine spray.

"This is the defendant's nightgown. Lab tests have determined that the blood on the front and back is her husband's."

"According to the defendant, where was the nightgown when Lamar Hoyt was shot by Mr. Jablonski?"

"She said that she was wearing it."

"Is the physical evidence consistent with the defendant's claim that she was wearing the nightgown when her husband was shot?"

"No." Yoshida held up the nightgown and displayed the backside to Quinn. "This is also high-velocity spatter. If the defendant was wearing the nightgown when Mr. Hoyt was shot, the spray would have covered the front of the nightgown. It is my conclusion that this nightgown was not on the defendant when Mr. Hoyt was shot. I believe it was lying on the bed with the backside up."

"What conclusions did you draw concerning the way in which the shooting occurred from your analysis of the blood spatter evidence?"

"It is my conclusion that the defendant was not wearing the nightgown when the shooting occurred. I believe that she left the nightgown front-down on the bed after having intercourse. Then she went to the bathroom. She was in the bathroom when Mr. Jablonski was in front of the bed and to the left of the armoire. Mr. Jablonski fired the three shots that struck and killed Mr. Hoyt. Then the defendant fired her first shot into Mr. Jablonski's temple from the area near the bathroom door. This shot caused high-velocity blood spatter to spray onto the side of the armoire. As soon as he was shot, Mr. Jablonski turned toward the bathroom and was shot front to back. The second bullet left no blood spatter because Mr. Jablonski was wearing heavy clothing and the bullet stayed in the body. Mr. Jablonski then crumpled to the floor with his head toward the bed and his feet almost touching the armoire."

"I have no further questions of Officer Yoshida," Riker said.

Mary Garrett began her cross-examination, but Quinn had trouble paying attention to it. Yoshida's testimony stunned him. Quinn had reached a tentative conclusion about how he would deal with the blackmailer's demand that he assure the conviction of Ellen Crease, but that decision had been based in part on a belief that Ellen Crease was an innocent person who was being framed by her enemies. Yoshida's testimony changed everything. He had to know if there was a flaw in Yoshida's interpretation of the blood spatter evidence.

"We have no further witnesses," Riker said when the examination of Yoshida was concluded. Quinn glanced at the clock. It was almost noon.

"Let's break for the day and I'll hear the legal argumcnts tomorrow. We'll reconvene at two. I have some matters I need to attend to in the morning."

Quinn turned to his court reporter.

"Miss Chan, please see me in chambers."

Quinn left the bench. He took off his robes as soon as he was through the door to his chambers. An idea had occurred to him as Garrett was questioning Yoshida. He buzzed Fran Stuart just as Margaret Chan walked in.

"Fran," Quinn said over the intercom as he motioned for Chan to sit down, "get me the file in State v. Schwartz, please."

Quinn released the intercom button and addressed the court reporter.

"Can you get me a transcript of Gary Yoshida's testimony today?"

"Sure. I should be able to finish it before five."

"Please drop it by when you're done."

Chan left just as Fran Stuart put the Schwartz file on his desk. Quinn thanked her and she returned to the outer office. Court-appointed counsel had represented the defendant in Schwartz. Quinn remembered signing an order authorizing payment of indigent defense funds for a court-appointed defense witness who was an expert in blood spatter. Quinn had been impressed by the testimony. The man's name, address and phone number were on the form on which the request for payment was made. Quinn jotted down the information and picked up the phone.

"Paul Baylor?" Quinn asked when the phone was answered.

"Yes."

"This is Judge Richard Quinn of the Multnomah County Circuit Court. You testified before me in State v. Schwartz."

"Oh, yes, Your Honor. What can I do for you?"

"I'd like to consult with you privately. The matter is confidential. Would you have time to meet with me tomorrow morning?''

"Do you want me to come to the courthouse?"

"No. I thought I could come to your office."

"Sure."

"Is eight A. M. too early?"

"No, that's fine. Uh, what is this about?"

"I'm looking for an opinion on an issue involving blood spatter evidence. I'll be bringing some pictures and a transcript."

"Fine. See you tomorrow."

"One more thing. Please don't mention this conversation or our meeting to anyone."

Quinn hung up and buzzed his secretary.

"Fran, please bring all of the evidence in the Crease hearing into my chambers. I want to study it."

A few minutes later, Fran Stuart placed a large cardboard box on the floor next to Quinn's desk.

"I'm going to get my lunch, Judge. Can I get you anything?"

"I brought my lunch. Thanks, Fran."

"I'll lock the front door to give you some privacy. I won't be long."

Fran Stuart closed the door to Quinn's chambers. A moment later, Quinn heard the door between the corridor and the reception area close. There was a small refrigerator in Quinn's private bathroom. Quinn took out a can of Coke and a brown bag with a ham and cheese sandwich and a bag of potato chips. He had made the sandwich that morning, but he had no appetite now. Still, he forced himself to take a bite. He knew it would be a mistake to skip lunch. He needed all his energy to cope with the crisis he was facing.

While Quinn ate he mulled over Yoshida's testimony. Loud and repeated knocking on the outer door interrupted Quinn's chain of thought. He did not want company, but the knocking was insistent. Quinn went into the reception room. There was a peephole in the door to the hall. Quinn looked through it. The blood drained from his face and he felt dizzy. The woman in the corridor was the woman who had passed by the courtroom door. Quinn stared harder through the peephole. The glass distorted the woman's image but there was no getting around her resemblance to Andrea Chapman. Quinn opened the door.

The woman was Andrea and she was not. Andrea had long black hair. The woman in the hall was blonde and her hair was cut short to frame her face. She also wore glasses. Beneath her raincoat, her clothing was conservative and cheap: a drab, colorless dress, no jewelry and very little makeup.

"Are you Judge Quinn? Richard Quinn?"

"Yes. Can I help you?"

"My . . . my name is Claire Reston. I need to talk to you. It's very important."

Quinn saw none of Andrea's breezy self-confidence in the woman. They were almost the same height, but Claire Reston slouched and her shoulders were hunched and folded in as if she were trying to hide behind them. She also had trouble looking Quinn in the eye.

"Why don't you come into my chambers?" suggested Quinn, who was anxious that no one see him with the woman.

Reston took one of the chairs across the desk from Quinn. She folded her hands in her lap.

"I ... I know about you and Andrea," Reston said without conviction.

"Who?"

Reston looked up. The lenses in her glasses were thick and made her eyes look large. Quinn felt terrible about lying to the woman, but he had no choice.

"Andrea Chapman is my sister. The ... the day before she disappeared, she told me about you."

"Okay. Now I understand. Look, Miss Reston, a police detective called me about your sister's disappearance. I'll tell you what I told him. I sat next to her on the flight to St. Jerome, but I didn't see her after we landed."

Reston looked down. She seemed on the verge of tears.

"That's not true." Reston's voice quivered as if the effort to disagree with Quinn was monumental. "She told me your name. She was upset. She didn't want to do it. I want you to know that."

"Do what, Miss Reston? I don't understand."

"They wanted her to seduce you. They were going to blackmail you."

"Who was going to blackmail me? What are you talking about?"

"She didn't tell me anything else. Just that she had been hired to seduce a judge. She told me your name. She was very nervous, very tense."

"Miss Reston, I assure you that I did not see your sister after we left the plane. If she was hired to do something to me, maybe she changed her mind. I only talked to her during the flight. She was friendly, but she made no attempt to seduce me. I'm married."

Reston looked confused.

"Have you told the police that I had something to do with your sister's disappearance?"

"'No. I . . . Andrea and I . . . we're not close. I don't even see her that much. In fact, the call from St. Jerome surprised me. I didn't even know that she had disappeared until the detective called to ask about her. I Well, I didn't know anything but your name and that you were a judge, so I didn't tell the detective what Andrea said." Reston looked down at her lap. She seemed embarrassed by her lack of courage. "Then I read about Senator Crease's trial and the story gave the name of the judge ..."

Reston trailed off. She looked very unsure of herself and Quinn believed his bluff would work.

"Miss Reston, I am sorry that your sister has disappeared. She seemed very nice. But I really can't help you. I talked to her a little on the plane. That's all. I probably mentioned where I was staying, but she never called my hotel. If she did, she didn't leave a message."

Reston sat up a little straighter. She studied Quinn.

"I ... I don't believe you. I think you do know something about Andrea's disappearance."

Quinn heard the hall door open and close. Reston looked over her shoulder toward the sound. She stood up quickly and opened the door between Quinn's chambers and the reception area. Quinn saw Fran Stuart over Reston's shoulder.

"I'm staying at the Heathman Hotel in room 325. You . . . you have to be honest with me. If you know something ..." Reston was on the verge of tears. "I'll give you until tomorrow."

Reston saw Stuart. She ran out of courage and bolted past the secretary.

"Who was that?" Stuart asked.

Quinn shook his head. "Forget about her. She's confused. It wasn't anything important."

Stuart started to say something, then thought better of it. Quinn closed the door to his chambers.

Chapter 19.

[1]

The offices of Oregon Forensic Investigations were located in an industrial park a few blocks from the Columbia River. Quinn had to wind through narrow streets flanked by warehouses to find the entrance to the parking lot. After parking in a space reserved for visitors, Quinn walked up a concrete ramp, then followed a walkway that led past several businesses. A door with the company name opened into a small anteroom. There were two chairs on either side of an end table that held a lamp and several copies of Scientific American and Time. In one wall of the reception area was a door and a sliding glass window. Quinn looked through the window and saw a receptionist's desk with a telephone and a second door in the back wall. The door to the receptionist's area was locked. A sign above a button on the wall instructed Quinn to ring for assistance. He pressed the button and heard a muted buzzing somewhere in the building. Moments later, the doors opened and Paul Baylor greeted Quinn.

Baylor was a slender, bookish African American with a B. S. in forensic science and criminal justice from Michigan State who had worked in the Oregon State Crime Lab for ten years before opening his own forensic consulting firm with another OSP forensic expert. Quinn had been impressed by the slow, thoughtful manner with which Baylor handled the prosecutor's questions when he testified in his courtroom. He did not appear to be taking sides and had answered truthfully, even when the answers were not favorable to the defense. Baylor was wearing a brown tweed sports jacket, a white shirt, a forest-green tie and tan slacks. After shaking hands with Quinn, Baylor brought him into a cramped office outfitted with inexpensive furniture.

"How can I help you, Judge?" Baylor asked when they were seated. Quinn was carrying a box containing the transcript of Gary Yoshida's testimony, several police reports, a sketch of Yoshida's diagram of the crime scene, a complete set of the crime scene photographs, including the two that showed the blood spatter pattern on the side of the armoire, and a brown paper bag with Ellen Crease's nightgown inside. He set the box on top of Baylor's desk.

"You may have read that I'm hearing motions in State v. Crease?

Baylor nodded.

"Do you know Gary Yoshida?"

"Sure. We worked together for several years when I was with OSP."

"What's your impression of him?"

Baylor looked uncomfortable about being asked to comment on another professional, but he answered the question.

"Gary does good work and he's very honest."

"Is he an expert on blood spatter?"

"He's knowledgeable about it."

"How exact a science is blood spatter analysis?"

Baylor thought about the question before answering.

"Blood spatter analysis is very helpful in determining what happened at a crime scene, but it's not like fingerprint examination. There is a certain amount of subjectivity involved. A fingerprint is not open to interpretation, if you have enough points of comparison. That's not true with blood spatter. You can t just look at an individual blood spot and draw indisputable conclusions. You have to look at the spot in the context of the whole scene. Bloodstains just tell you in general what happened."

"So two honest experts can look at the same scene and draw different conclusions as to what happened?"

"Sure, in certain instances."

"I would like you to look at the evidence I've brought and read Officer Yoshida's testimony. Then I would like you to tell me if there is any analysis of the evidence that would support Ellen Crease's version of how the shoot-out in her bedroom occurred."

Baylor's brow furrowed. He looked concerned.

"Are you questioning Gary's honesty?" he asked.

"No, no. I just want to know if there is a reasonable explanation of the evidence that is different from his conclusions. There isn't any question in my mind that Officer Yoshida gave an honest opinion in court. I want to know if he could be wrong."

"I assume Gary had the advantage of visiting the crime scene?"

Quinn nodded. "He was out there twice."

"Can I visit it?"

"No. Besides, my information is that it has been cleaned."

"That's going to put me at a disadvantage."

"I realize that. Just do your best. And let me know if working on the problem without visiting the scene has a critical impact on your conclusions."

"Okay. When do you want me to get back to you?"

"Actually, I thought I'd wait. Is this something you can do right away?"

Baylor looked surprised. "I can get to it now. It might take a while."

"Is there someplace nearby I can eat breakfast?" Quinn asked. He did not have much of an appetite, but a restaurant would give him a place to pass the time while Baylor worked.

"Yeah. Sue s Cafe is pretty good. It's two blocks down just when you turn out of the lot on the right."

"Okay. I'll be back in an hour."

" Til see what I can do by then. Uh, one other thing. Should I submit a court-appointed witness voucher for my work?"

"No. I'll be paying for this personally."

When Quinn returned to Oregon Forensic Investigations, he found Paul Baylor in shirtsleeves with his collar open and his tie at half-mast.

"You find Sue's okay?" Baylor asked as he led Quinn through a door into a large work area. The walls were unpainted concrete blocks and there was fluorescent lighting hanging from the ceiling. The laboratory equipment that sat on several wooden tables looked new and Quinn figured that this was where Baylor and his partner had sunk their capital.

"It was a good suggestion." Quinn noticed the papers and photographs that covered one of the worktables. "Are you through?"

"Yeah. It didn't take as long as I thought it might."

"Were you able to draw any conclusions?" Quinn asked anxiously.

"Yes."

"And?"

"Okay. First thing, I can't disagree with Gary's findings."

"You mean the evidence contradicts Ellen Crease's version of the shootings?"

"I didn't say that. Look, as I said before, blood spatter analysis is not an exact science. People can draw different conclusions from the same evidence in some situations. Gary's conclusions are valid. However, Gary's analysis of the significance of the blood spatter patterns on the nightgown and the side of the armoire is not the only analysis one can make."

Crease's nightgown was lying facedown on top of butcher paper on a long table. Baylor led the judge over to it.

"The spatter pattern on the back of the nightgown was the easiest to deal with." Baylor pointed at the dried blood that had sprayed over the back of the white fabric. "In the transcript, it says that the lab concluded that the blood on the front of the nightgown and the spray on the back are Lamar Hoyt's blood, so I'm accepting that as a fact. No question that's high-velocity spatter. So far so good.

"Now, as I understand it, Crease said that she was in bed with the nightgown on, talking to her husband, when Jablonski entered the bedroom and shot him."

That's how I heard it."

"Okay. Now, Gary concludes that she was lying about wearing the nightgown because the spray pattern from the high-velocity spatter is across the back of the nightgown. His conclusion is that she's in the bathroom lying in wait for Jablonski and the nightgown is flat on the bed, front side down. That's one explanation for the pattern being on the back, but there is another that's consistent with Crease's story."

Baylor grabbed two wooden chairs and set them side by side. Then he motioned to Quinn.

"Stand over by that filing cabinet and face me." Baylor sat in the chair that faced Quinn's left side. "You're Jablonski and I'm Crease. The filing cabinet is the armoire. I'm sitting on my side of the bed. I've got my nightgown on. The other chair is the side of the bed closest to the bathroom. That's Lamar Hoyt's side.

"Jablonski comes into the bedroom. He moves to the middle of the bed and to the left of the armoire and raises the gun to shoot Hoyt."

Baylor bent over the side of the chair to his right.

"I'm going for the gun that is under the bed. See how my back is suddenly facing my husband? The fabric is stretched out. If you shoot while I'm bent like this and Hoyt is hit at a certain angle, the spray will cover my back, not my front. Then, when I straighten up, the fabric will rumple a little, making it look like the nightgown was tossed on its front on the bed."

Baylor straightened up.

"So Crease could have been telling the truth about wearing the nightgown," Quinn said slowly, more to himself than to Baylor. "If she was, she would have had to bend over the west-facing side of the bed for the spatter pattern on the nightgown to look like that? She couldn't have been in the bathroom."

"Yes. But Gary's explanation could also be correct."

"What about the blood on the armoire?"

"That gets trickier, but there is a way that the spray could have gotten on the armoire with Crease shooting from her side of the bed.

"Let's keep Jablonski on his feet on the west side of the armoire, exactly where Gary placed him. He shoots Hoyt as Crease goes for her gun. Crease's movements distract Jablonski. He turns his head toward the window but does not turn his body. Now Jablonski's right temple is facing Crease's side of the bed. Go on, turn your head."

Quinn did as he was told.

"Now, the next part gets tricky." Baylor raised his hand and pretended to fire a gun. "Bam. Crease's first shot enters the right temple, high-velocity spatter sprays from the wound, but the spray would go forward, in front of Jablonski's body and onto the floor, and it would not travel far, since the amount of spray is small and high-velocity spray is atomized. When Jablonski collapses after the body shot, he would fall on top of the high-velocity spray and obliterate it."

"If the high-velocity spray from the head shot landed on the floor, what caused the blood spatter pattern on the side of the armoire?"

"Aspirated blood from Jablonski's lungs. A shot to the body frequently causes people to cough up blood. If Jablonski turned his head toward the armoire after he was shot in the body, he could have coughed blood on the armoire before collapsing onto the high-velocity spatter from the head wound. Aspirated blood can resemble high-velocity spray."

A thought occurred to Quinn. "Is there a difference between blood that is sprayed from a head wound and aspirated blood from the lungs?"

"You mean, could we test the blood on the armoire to see if it is aspirated blood?"

"Exacdy."

"Not anymore. If the blood on the armoire was tested shortly after the crime, it's possible that amylase, an enzyme from saliva, could have been detected. Amalyse could have been caught up in the blood when Jablonski coughed. But amalyse breaks down and becomes undetectable in a week or two, depending on the temperature and humidity in a room. Additionally, amalyse is not always found in aspirated blood, or it may go undetected because it's below the detection limit of the test that's used. Even if Gary had tested the blood on the armoire as soon as he caught on to its possible significance, I doubt that it would have told him anything."

"So there's no way to tell if the blood on the side of the armoire is aspirated blood or high-velocity spatter."

"Correct."

"And there's no way to say for certain where Ellen Crease was when she shot Martin Jablonski."

"Also correct."

Quinn's shoulders sagged. He was hoping that Baylor would debunk Yoshida's analysis. All he had done was confuse the situation.

[2]

Quinn's head was pounding by the time he arrived at his chambers. If Baylor had told him that the blood spatter evidence proved that Ellen Crease was a liar, Quinn would have let the trial run its course. But Baylor could not say that the shooting of Martin Jablonski had not occurred exactly as Crease described it.

Quinn gave the exhibits to Fran Stuart and instructed her to hold all of his calls. He reviewed the memos on the law of search and seizure and the rules of evidence filed by the parties. From what he could determine, the blood spatter evidence was the key to the State's case. If Quinn granted all of Garrett's motions, the only evidence left in the case would be Jablonski's history as a burglar who resorted to violence and the indisputable fact that Jablonski had broken into the Hoyt mansion and shot Lamar Hoyt. If this was the way that the evidence stood when the State rested, any judge would have to grant a motion for judgment of acquittal to the defense.

Quinn rested his head in his hands. He had slept little the night before and he was exhausted and not thinking clearly. He needed to rest, he wanted time to think out his course of action, but court was scheduled to convene in five minutes.

When Quinn looked up, he saw Lincoln's framed quote on his wall. Lincoln's counsel to do one's best while trying to do what was right had helped him reach his decision to impose a prison sentence on Frederick Gideon when everyone expected him to grant the judge probation. Doing the right thing was the centerpiece of Quinn's personal philosophy. It was something you did regardless of the consequences. Sometimes doing the right thing required courage. Quinn had not been courageous on St. Jerome. He did not report Andrea's murder to the authorities for selfish reasons. While his cowardice protected him, it helped Andrea's killer get away with murder. Now he wanted Quinn to help him destroy another life. Quinn decided that he was not going to do that. This afternoon he would act with the courage he had not shown on St. Jerome.

"Before I rule on these motions, I want to thank counsel on both sides for their excellent briefs and oral argument. They have been of great assistance to me in framing and resolving some difficult issues."

Quinn paused. Cedric Riker leaned back, looking as if he did not have a care in the world. He was so self-centered that he could not conceive of losing a motion. When he did lose, he always found someone else to blame. Mary Garrett shifted nervously on her chair. She was self-confident, but she had none of Riker's egomania to blind her to the fact that the questions were close. Ellen Crease watched Quinn with cool detachment.

"I'll start with the most complex question. Did the search of the defendant's bedroom violate the Oregon and United States Constitutions? The burden is on the State to prove that the search was legal because the search was conducted without a warrant. Warrandess searches are presumed to be illegal, unless the State cifi show the existence of an exception to the warrant requirements of the Oregon and United States Constitutions.

"Mr. Riker has argued that exigent circumstances excused Detective Anthony and Officer Yoshida from obtaining a warrant. I do not find this argument convincing. Officer Yoshida gave no scientific opinion as to why waiting a few hours while a warrant was obtained would make it any more likely that the blood spatter would be degraded or destroyed. After all, it had been over a week since the crime scene was created. True, the cleaners would have destroyed the evidence, but they were not scheduled to appear until the next day. Additionally, Detective Anthony and Officer Yoshida did not know that the cleaners were coming until after the decision was made to go to the estate without a warrant."

Garrett leaned forward, hanging on Quinn's every word.

"The State argues that James Allen gave a valid consent to the police to enter the bedroom. I find that Mr. Allen did not have real authority to do that. He and the police were both aware that Senator Crease had specifically instructed Allen to keep everyone except the cleaning crew out of the bedroom.

"However, I do find that James Allen did have apparent authority to open the locked bedroom for the police. He was the housekeeper. He had the keys to the room. Detective Anthony could reasonably assume that the person left in charge of the house by Senator Crease could let him and Officer Yoshida into the bedroom if he wished to let them in and there was a valid reason to do so."

Garrett's shoulders sagged and Riker smiled.

"Despite my finding that James Allen had the apparent authority to consent to a search of Senator Crease s bedroom, I must still suppress the evidence obtained during the search."

Riker shot up in his chair. He looked stunned. Garrett looked like she could not believe what she was hearing.

"I find that Detective Anthony intentionally coerced Mr. Allen into opening the bedroom after he had been told unequivocally by Mr. Allen that he was under instructions from his employer to keep everyone but the cleaning crew out of the bedroom. I hold that Detective Anthony was not credible when he testified that he did not intentionally coerce Mr. Allen into giving consent."

Riker was on his feet. "Your Honor," he started, but Quinn cut him off.

"The time for argument is over, Mr. Riker. Please sit down."

Riker collapsed onto his chair.

"As to the other motions, I have read the briefs submitted by the parties and I have examined the affidavits submitted by the State detailing what Conchita Jablonski and Karen Fargo would testify to if called as witnesses. I will not allow Conchita Jablonski to testify to anything her husband told her concerning how he came by the money that was found in the Jablonski apartment. That is pure hearsay.

"Similarly, I am excluding any statements that Lamar Hoyt may have made to Karen Fargo about the state of his marriage and his desire to leave his wife for her on the grounds that they, too, are hearsay."

Riker could only gape at the judge. His case against Ellen Crease was being destroyed beyond repair.

"Finally, I will allow the defense to introduce evidence concerning Mr. Jablonski's criminal background to support its position that he was acting as a burglar on the evening of the shooting.

"I'll prepare the order," Quinn said as he stood. "Mr. Riker, you have thirty days to decide if you want to appeal my order to the court of appeals. Court is adjourned."

As soon as Quinn left the bench, Cedric Riker streaked out of the courtroom with his assistants in tow and Ryan Clark headed down the hall to the pay phones to let Benjamin Gage in on the bad news. James Allen stayed seated. He watched Mary Garrett and Ellen Crease discuss the outcome of the case at their table. Allen looked grim and undecided. After a moment's more thought he mixed with the spectators and left the room.

"What does this mean?" Ellen Crease asked her lawyer.

"It means we won everything," Garrett told her as the enormity of Quinn's ruling dawned on her. "He suppressed everything Riker can use to convict you. He left him with nothing."

Garrett hoisted her attache case and they headed out of the courtroom.

"You sound surprised."

"To tell the truth, I am. I had some hope of winning the motion to keep out the hearsay, but the blood spatter motion was a real long shot!"

"Does this mean that the case is over? That I'm free?"

"Technically, the charges still exist. But Riker's choice is to appeal or dismiss and ..."

Garrett stopped. Bearing down on them was Lamar Hoyt, Jr.

"This isn't over, bitch!" he screamed in Crease's face. "I'm contesting the will and I'm gonna sue you civilly for wrongful death."

"Get away from my client," Garrett commanded.

"Shut up, you . . ."

Suddenly, Junior was up on his toes with his left arm cranked behind his back in a hammerlock. Applying the pressure was a tall man with a swimmer's wide shoulders and narrow waist. Long black hair swept across his forehead. His blue eyes looked sleepy and his thick black mustache was shaggy. The man did not look angry and he sounded unexcited when he said, "Come on, Junior. Let's calm down here.''

"Ah, ah," Junior managed as the man pressed his arm toward his shoulder blade and beyond.

"I don't want to hurt you," the man said, "but I can't have you threatening the senator and Ms. Garrett."

"Let go! Ah!" Junior gasped. His face was cramped with pain and Garrett thought he was going to cry.

"If I let go, will you behave?"

"Yes!"

"Okay," the man said as he released some of the pressure on Junior's arm. "Now, I'm taking you at your word and I'm going to let you go. When I do, I want you to head out of here as fast as your fat legs will carry you. If you're lying to me, I'll break both your arms. We on the same wavelength?"

"Yeah! Yeah! Let me go."

The man released Junior and took a step back. Junior grabbed his shoulder and bent forward.

"On your way. Let's not dawdle," the man said.

Junior glared, but kept his mouth shut and headed for the elevators.

"Thank you, Jack," Ellen Crease said calmly. She had not blinked during the encounter with Junior.

"My pleasure," the man said, flashing her a boyish smile.

Mary Garrett had noticed the man sitting in the back of the courtroom throughout the hearing. She had assumed that he was a policeman.

"Mary, this is Jack Brademas," Crease said. "He's the head of security at Hoyt Industries. Jack's been protecting me since I learned about the money that was paid to Martin Jablonski."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Brademas."

"Jack, please. Especially after that coup you just pulled off in court. Was Judge Quinn's ruling as good for the senator as it seemed?"

"Better," Garrett answered. "For all intents and purposes, this case is over."

[3]

"Ced, this is Lou Anthony. I just got back to my desk and there was a note to call you. What happened at the hearing?"

"Quinn fucked us, Lou."

"How?"

"He suppressed everything. The blood spatter evidence, Fargo's statements about what Hoyt told her. Everything."

"All the evidence?" Anthony repeated as if he could not believe his ears.

"Everything he could suppress, he threw out."

"Jesus. Where does that leave us?"

"In outer fucking space without a ship. Quinn gutted our case."

"Can't you appeal?"

"Sure, but it would be useless. The court of appeals can reverse a judge who misinterprets the law, but Quinn based his decision to suppress the blood spatter evidence on his personal evaluation of your credibility. The court can't review that."

"What do you mean, my credibility?"

"He said you were a liar, Lou. That's as plain as I can say it."

"He what?"

"He said you lied under oath when you testified that you did not intentionally pressure James Allen to let you into the bedroom."

"But I didn't. I mean, I persuaded the guy, but I never leaned on him. We just talked.''

"That may be what really happened, but Quinn put it on the record that you are a liar. The court of appeals cannot reverse a decision that rests on a judge's evaluation of the credibility of a witness, unless there is no evidence in the record to support the finding."

"I wouldn't lie under oath. You know that."

"I know it, Lou, but everyone who reads Quinn's opinion is going to think otherwise."

[4]

While she was driving home, Karen Fargo caught the end of a news story about Ellen Crease's case, but she did not hear enough to let her figure out what had happened. Fargo turned on the television as soon as she walked into her house. The case was the lead story. A reporter was talking about Richard Quinn's dramatic decision while the screen showed a triumphant Ellen Crease waving to supporters from the courthouse steps.

"I want to thank all of the people who had faith in me during these dark days," Crease told the reporters who were massed around her. "I loved my husband. Losing him to senseless violence was a great blow, but being accused unjustly of murdering someone you love is the cruelest blow. I thank God for Judge Richard Quinn's courage."

"Will you continue to campaign, Senator?" a reporter shouted.

Crease stared directly into the camera. Her mouth was set in a grim line. When she spoke, there was no doubting her determination.

"I have never stopped campaigning. The Republican Party should not be represented by a man who is soft on crime, for gun control and sympathetic to the liberal forces in our society that would pervert the values that have made America the greatest country on earth. I represent the true values of our party, and the voters will validate that statement in the May primary."

The screen was suddenly filled with a picture of Benjamin Gage dressed in a tuxedo with his beautiful wife on his arm entering the Benson Hotel to attend a fund-raiser.

"Senator," asked a reporter from Channel 6, "what is your reaction to Judge Quinn's ruling in Ellen Crease's case?"

Gage halted. He looked serious and thoughtful.

"Ken, it would be inappropriate for me to comment on Ellen Crease's criminal case. However, I do feel that it would be ironic if Ms. Crease was to have her case dismissed on one of the technicalities that she so frequently derides in her speeches. It would also be unfortunate for the voters if the public was deprived of a clear resolution of the murder charges against Ms. Crease because of the suppression of the evidence that the State believes will prove its allegations."

"So you do not feel that justice is being done in Senator Crease's case?"

"Now, Ken," Gage answered with a patient smile, "you know better than to put words in my mouth. I will leave the business of solving Lamar Hoyt's murder to the police. My job is to represent the people of Oregon in the United States Senate."

Gage turned from the reporter and entered the hotel. The reporter made a closing comment, but Karen Fargo did not hear him. She was concentrating on the man who followed Senator Gage into the Benson. He was tall, good-looking, dressed in a tuxedo, and he had a jagged scar on his right cheek. Fargo only had a moment to study him, but he definitely looked like the man who had offered her money and a job if she would tell the police about her involvement with Lamar Hoyt. Did the man work for Senator Gage? She wondered if the film footage showing the man with the scar would be aired again at eleven. She decided to watch the late news so she could be certain about what she had seen.

The phone rang. Fargo switched off the set and picked up the receiver.

"Ms. Fargo?"

"Yes?"

"This is Detective Anthony."

"Yes?" Fargo answered tentatively.

"I wanted to tell you what happened in court."

"I ... It was on the news. That the judge suppressed the evidence. What does that mean?"

"It means that Mr. Riker cannot use the evidence we found in the second search of the crime scene to convict Ellen Crease. Mr. Riker will appeal the judge's ruling, but that could take a while. Maybe years."

"So I won't have to go to court?"

"It's possible you might, but not in the near future."

Fargo sagged with relief. She would never forget Lamar, but she was terrified of having to appear in court.

"Thank you for calling," Fargo said.

"I wanted to be certain that you understood what happened," Anthony answered kindly. "Feel free to call me anytime if you have questions."

Fargo thought about the man with the scar. Should she tell Detective Anthony about him?

"Detective," she started. Then it occurred to her that she might lose her job and the money if she said anything. And it might involve her further in a matter that she wanted to put behind her.

"Yes?"

"Nothing. Just thank you."

[5]

Quinn told Fran Stuart to hold all of his calls. Then he asked her to stay late so that she could type up the drafts and final version of the Findings of Fact, Conclusions of Law and Order in the Crease case. Quinn shut his door and collapsed in the chair behind his desk. He felt sick to his stomach from what he had done and sick with fear of the consequences.

Quinn gathered the materials that he would need to write the order. It took him an hour to write and polish a draft. Quinn gave it to his secretary. Fran typed it quickly and Quinn sent her to dinner while he worked on the final draft. It was already after six and night had fallen.

Fran returned around seven and typed the final draft. Quinn read it through.

"This is fine, Fran. You can go home now. I'll sign it and leave it on your desk. File the original with the clerk's office and send a copy to Cedric Riker and Mary Garrett. And thanks for staying late."

Fran closed the door. Quinn rubbed his eyes. Then he read through his order a final time, checking the facts, rereading sections of cases he had cited and statutes he had quoted. When Quinn was convinced that he had constructed the document in a way that would make reversal in an appellate court impossible, he signed the order.

Quinn closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of his chair. He had put off thinking about the future until he had made his ruling out of fear that he would be too afraid to act. He could put off thinking about his career no longer. Quinn's life was the law, but he had violated his oath by ruling for Crease. If he had ruled honestly, he would have held that Allen's consent was not coerced. By ruling as he had, he had betrayed the trust that had been put in him by the people of his state.

Quinn looked around his chambers at the bound volumes that contained the Law. His father had written some of the opinions in those books. As a boy, he revered them and dreamed of following his father's example and career. Now Quinn saw that the cases in the reporters were nothing. You could write the most beautiful words, but they were meaningless without the will and the desire to follow them. Quinn had betrayed his trust. He had turned the words to dust.

Chapter 20.

[1]

The next morning Quinn overslept. By the time he arrived at the courthouse Fran Stuart had filed the order in Crease and sent copies to the parties. Quinn told Stuart that he did not want to be disturbed. He shut the door to his chambers and began work on a draft of the letter of resignation that he planned to submit to Stanley Sax. Writing the letter was more difficult than he imagined. It was almost like writing a suicide note. There were many false starts and a lot of time spent staring into space. When Fran buzzed him at eleven forty-five, she startled Quinn out of one of his reveries.

"What is it, Fran?"

"There are two Portland Police detectives to see you. I told them that you didn't want to be disturbed, but they insist on speaking to you."

"What do they want?"

"They wouldn't say."

"Okay. Send them in. I'll talk to them."

The door to Quinn's chambers opened and a slender black man Quinn did not recognize followed Lou Anthony into the room. Anthony looked like a man who was controlling his anger. Quinn colored as it dawned on him how much the detective must dislike him.

"Good morning, Judge," Anthony said with strained civility. "This is my partner, Leroy Dennis."

Quinn nodded at Dennis and asked, "What brings you here?"

"Police business. I'd like you to come with us."

"Come where?"

"There's been a murder and I want you to accompany Detective Dennis and me to the crime scene."

"If you need to have a search warrant authorized, I can do the work here."

"If I needed a search warrant, you'd be the last judge I'd contact," Anthony snapped. Dennis put his hand on his partner's arm and Anthony looked down, embarrassed by his outburst.

"There are some things that we need to talk over with you and we can't do it here," Dennis said.

"This is getting a little too mysterious, Detectives."

"Sorry, but this is all we can tell you before we get to the scene," Dennis said. "Everything will become clear to you there."

The Heathman Hotel was only a few blocks from the courthouse. The detectives were silent during the short walk and Quinn's imagination ran wild. When they arrived at the hotel the judge noticed several police cars parked near the entrance. Dennis and Anthony led Quinn through the lobby to the reception desk, where an officer and a harried-looking man in his forties were examining hotel records.

"Mr. Abrams," Anthony interrupted. The man who was talking to the officer looked up. "Did you see this man in here yesterday evening?"

Abrams studied Quinn for a few moments, then shook his head.

"It's impossible to say. We were extremely busy. The lobby was very crowded."

Suddenly, Quinn guessed why the detectives had brought him to the hotel. Claire Reston, Andrea Chapman's sister, was staying at the Heathman. Anthony had said that there had been a murder. Was Reston the victim? If she was, why did the police think that Quinn would know anything about her death?

"What's going on here?" Quinn demanded.

"You'll see in a moment," Dennis answered as the detectives led Quinn to the elevators. Once inside the car, Anthony pressed the button for the third floor. Reston had told Quinn that she was staying in room 325. Now Quinn was certain that he was being taken to view Reston's dead body. He remembered that Fran Stuart was standing inches away when Reston had told him her hotel and room number.

The door to 325 was open. A large Portland Police officer was guarding the entrance. The room was a corner suite. Criminalists from the Oregon State Crime Lab were moving around inside the sitting room, photographing, dusting and measuring. Everything in the room looked orderly, except for a room service tray with a half-eaten dinner on it that sat on a coffee table across from the television.

Anthony led Quinn through the crowd to the door to the bedroom. The door was partially closed, but Quinn could see the edge of the bed and a bare foot. He knew he did not want to go into the room, but he had no choice.

"Do you recognize this woman, Judge?" Anthony asked as he thrust the door open. The bedroom looked and smelled like a slaughterhouse. Objects had been knocked onto the floor from a dresser, a chair had been overturned and the bed had been stripped of its blankets, which lay in a bundle on the bloodstained carpet. The blood on the carpet was nothing compared to the quantity of blood that saturated the bare undersheet upon which Claire Reston lay spread-eagled. Her hands had been bound to the headboard and her feet were secured to the foot of the bed. Blood had spattered on the wall behind her. She was naked. A crude gag had been stuffed inside her mouth.

Quinn's knees buckled and he leaned against the wall.

"Are you okay, Judge?" Dennis asked when he noticed Quinn's ashen pallor.

Quinn wanted to turn away from the bed, but he was mesmerized by the tableau of wanton violence.

"This is the first time . . . I've seen pictures, but . . ."

"Maybe we better go next door," Dennis said. "Get you outta here. You want some water?"

"Please."

Quinn began to turn from the bed. Then he froze. The hair on Reston's head was blond, but her pubic hair was black like Andrea Chapman's. Quinn moved slightly so he could see Reston's right hip. What he saw caused his stomach to roll.

"Hey," Dennis said, gripping Quinn's elbow. "Come on, now. Take some breaths."

Quinn turned from the bed. He gulped in air. Dennis led him from the room, but Quinn did not even notice that he was moving. He was trying to absorb, what he had just seen. Not the corpse or the gaping wounds that covered it or the blood or the stench, but the pale, half-moon-shaped scar that Quinn had seen on the dead woman's hip: a scar identical to that which he had seen on Andrea Chapman's hip on the beach in the Cove of Lost Souls. Claire Reston did not just look like Andrea Chapman. She was Andrea Chapman. Chapman had not been murdered on St. Jerome.

Dennis led Quinn out of 325 and into the suite next door. The police had commandeered it as a temporary headquarters. Anthony followed them. A detective was on the phone in the sitting room and two police officers were drinking coffee on the couch. Dennis brought Quinn into the bedroom and Anthony shut the door. The judge sank onto the bed and held his head in his hands.

"Must be quite a shock," Dennis said sympathetically as he walked into the bathroom to get Quinn a glass of water. "Seeing that poor young woman like that. 'Specially if it's your first time. I got light-headed my first time, too. Couldn't eat all day."

Quinn's senses were overloaded by the horror he had witnessed in the bedroom next door and by the discovery that no one had been murdered on St. Jerome.

"Here," Dennis said, handing the glass to Quinn. Quinn took it gratefully and sipped a little. Dennis pulled up a chair next to the bed. "How long you known her, Judge?"

Dennis had slipped the question in so smoothly that Quinn almost answered it. Should he admit he knew the dead woman? Should he admit to knowing her as Claire Reston or Andrea Chapman? If he admitted to knowing that the dead woman was Andrea, how could he explain that the scar was the tip-off without revealing that he had seen Andrea in a bikini? Once he admitted that, he would have to confess to seeing her after the flight to St. Jerome. Quinn made a decision.

"I ... I just met her. I was asked to speak at a legal seminar on St. Jerome in the Caribbean in late February. My wife was supposed to accompany me, but she had to cancel at the last minute because of a business emergency. My wife's seat on the plane was taken by a woman named Andrea Chapman."

Quinn paused and drank some more water.

"A few days ago, I received a call from a police detective who was looking into Ms. Chapman's disappearance ..."

"Where did he call from and what was his name?" Anthony interrupted.

"I think his last name was Fletcher. He mentioned his first name, but I can t remember it. If he told me where he was calling from, I forgot. I don't think he did, though."

"So this Chapman woman disappeared?" Dennis said.

"From St. Jerome. I didn't know anything about that."

"You didn't see Chapman after the flight?" Anthony asked.

"Well, in the airport, but not after that."

"You were saying that you just met the deceased?" Dennis prodded.

"Yes. She came to my chambers during the lunch break in the hearing on the pretrial motions in Ellen Crease's case. She said her name was Claire Reston and that Andrea Chapman was her sister. She wanted to know if I had any information about her sister's disappearance."

"Why would she think you knew anything about that?" Anthony asked.

Quinn froze. He had not thought about that.

"I, uh, I assumed that she'd gotten my name from the detective who called me. He got my name from the airline manifest. She never told me how she got my name, but the detective must have told her that I sat next to her sister."

"So that's when you talked to the sister? On the plane and in the airport?" Anthony asked.

Quinn felt panicky. Why did Anthony repeat his question? Could he prove that Quinn had seen Andrea the next day?

"Yes."

"Not after the flight?"

"No. Not after."

"Judge Quinn, I am going to give you the Miranda rights now," Anthony said. Quinn's pulse rate jumped. Anthony would only do that if Quinn was a suspect in Claire Reston's murder.

"You have the right to remain silent ..."

"Why is this necessary?" Quinn asked.

"I'll answer that when I'm done," Anthony answered curtly. Quinn sat silently while Anthony finished reading him his rights, trying to guess what the police knew.

"Judge, I'm going to ask you again. Did you see Andrea Chapman after the flight to St. Jerome?"

Quinn suddenly noticed the manila envelope that Anthony was holding. The detective had shielded it from Quinn's view while Dennis was talking to him. Anthony withdrew from the envelope a photograph of Quinn and Andrea talking on the blanket in the cove. The photograph had been taken with a telephoto lens. If they blew it up further, Quinn was certain that the scar on Chapman's hip would become visible and the police would figure out that Reston and Chapman were the same person, if they did not know that already.

"We found these photographs in the dead woman's suitcase, Judge Quinn. Would you care to explain them?"

Quinn was having trouble breathing.

"Can I get you some more water, Judge?" Dennis asked solicitously. "You okay?"

Quinn sucked in air. He was on the verge of breaking down.

"Did you fuck Chapman on St. Jerome?" Anthony asked angrily. "Did her sister trail you to Portland and threaten to tell your wife?" They didn't know that Reston and Chapman were the same person, Quinn realized. "Did you slash her to ribbons to shut her up?"

"No. It wasn't like that. I didn't have sex with Andrea.''

"You want us to believe that you were all alone with this woman and you didn't try to fuck her?"

Quinn did not know what to say.

"It is a strange coincidence that this Chapman woman disappears right after you meet her, then her sister talks with you and she's dead the next day," Dennis said.

"You have to believe me," Quinn pleaded. "I met Andrea on the plane. She was very nice. We talked during the flight. She told me that there was a cove on the far side of the island with a beautiful reef. It's the cove in the picture. We spent the afternoon there. That's all."

"Why didn't you tell us that before?" Dennis asked.

"I was afraid that someone would think I was involved in her disappearance," Quinn answered lamely.

"Did you ever see these pictures before?" Dennis asked.

"No."

"That's funny, because you haven't asked us where we got them or who took them. You didn't even seem surprised to see them."

When Quinn did not respond, Dennis asked, "Judge, can you tell us where you were last night between six and eight?"

"Six and eight?" Quinn repeated inanely.

"Yes, sir."

"I was at the courthouse, in my chambers. I ... I was working on the order in the Crease case."

"Can anyone vouch for you?"

"My secretary, Fran Stuart. She was there."

"The whole time?"

"No. She typed up a first draft for me, then went to dinner sometime between six and seven. Then she came back and typed the final. I think she left around seven-thirty."

"So there was an hour and a half between six and eight when you were alone?"

Quinn nodded.

"No cleaning people came in, no one called?"

Quinn shook his head. He felt completely helpless.

"You see our problem here, Judge?" Dennis asked. "The Heathman is only a short walk from the courthouse. Td bet five minutes max. And there was a lot going on in the hotel between six and eight, which is the time when the medical examiner estimates that Claire Reston was murdered. It would have been easy for you to walk from the courthouse to the hotel, slip up to the third floor unnoticed and ..." Dennis shrugged. "Can you help us out here?"

Quinn looked back and forth between the two policemen. Both men watched him with blank expressions.

"You can't think . . . My, God, I could never do something like . . . like what was done to that poor woman."

"Nice people sometimes do terrible things under stress, Judge," Dennis said sympathetically. "She showed you the photos, you see your marriage and career going down the toilet. We see a lot of this kind of thing. If you did it, let us know so we can help you."

"That . . . that woman wasn't just killed. That was methodical. That was torture."

"Maybe you got a taste on St. Jerome," Anthony said harshly. "The thrill of having Chapman helpless, begging. It can be a turn-on for some people. Was it a turn-on for you?"

Quinn stared at Anthony in disbelief. Then he looked at Dennis. They had been playing with him and he was too distracted to see it. They really believed that he could tie up and torture a defenseless woman.

"Gentlemen, I've tried to be cooperative, but it is now clear to me . . . I don't want to continue this conversation, except to say that I did not hurt Claire Reston. I want to go now. I won t talk to you anymore without a lawyer."

"Why don't you sit and think a minute while I discuss this with Detective Anthony?" Dennis said as he motioned Anthony into the outer room.

Quinn let his head fall into his hands. He wanted to tell the detectives the truth, but he would be providing them with a massive motive for murder if he revealed that the dead woman had been used to blackmail him. Dennis and Anthony would believe that Quinn, enraged by her betrayal, had murdered Reston. The conclusion was logical, even if it was false.

The door opened and Dennis and Anthony reentered the bedroom.

"We're going to let you go, Judge," Dennis told Quinn. "Neither one of us thinks you've told the truth, but we don't want to rush this investigation. I advise you to think very seriously about your duties as a citizen. If you have information that would help us solve the death of the poor girl in the other room, you have to tell us. You're not just some nobody on the street. You're a judge. From what they say, that means something to you. Think about how you should be acting here."

[2]

Fran Stuart stood up as soon as Quinn walked into the reception area. She looked very upset.

"I waited for you to come back. I didn't know where to reach you."

"Calm down, Fran. What's wrong?"

"It's Mr. Price. He's had a heart attack. Richard Kahn called you ten minutes after you left with the detectives."

"Is he . . . ?"

"No. Mr. Kahn said they were talking about a case in Mr. Price's office when he complained about chest pains. He's at St. Vincent's Hospital. They're in surgery right now."

Quinn was nursing a cup of coffee in the hospital cafeteria when a tall, middle-aged woman wearing a black skirt and a gray sweater approached his table.

"Judge Quinn?"

"Yes."

"I'm Dr. Loerts. I operated on Mr. Price."

"Sit down, please. Can I get you some coffee?"

"No, thanks," the surgeon answered with a weary smile. She looked tired. Her red hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she rubbed her eyelids as soon as she slid onto the chair across from the judge.

"Mr. Price is going to be fine. We performed a triple bypass. That sounds scary, but we do a ton of them and it's routine for my team."

"What happened?"

"Three of Mr. Price's arteries were clogged and that was keeping an adequate supply of blood from reaching his heart. We took one vein from his leg and another from his chest and attached them to the arteries at a spot in front of and behind the area that was blocked. In other words, we literally bypassed the area. Everything is working just fine now. In fact, he's probably in better shape because there isn't anything blocking the flow of blood to his heart."

"Can I see him?"

"Not right now. He's in the recovery room and he'll probably be there for another hour or two. He'll go to the coronary care unit when he's ready. You can see him there but he's going to be heavily medicated. He probably won't even remember your visit. When he's well enough, he'll go up to the sixth floor for the rest of his stay. That floor is reserved for people with heart problems. I expect him to be out of the hospital by next week."

"I'd still like to see him today, even if he doesn't know. When can I do that?"

The doctor looked at her watch. "We'll transfer him to coronary care in an hour or so. You can only stay for a short time, but I'd guess that you'll be able to see him around six."

"You're certain my ... my father is okay?"

Dr. Loerts pushed herself to her feet. "Your dad is going to be fine, so don't worry."

[3]

Quinn could not return to the gloomy solitude of his rented apartment. The only other place he could think to go was his chambers, where he planned to finish writing his letter of resignation and put his cases in order for the judges who would inherit them. Quinn drove the route to the courthouse in a mental fog. Dr. Loerts had assured Quinn that Frank would be okay, but Frank was eighty years old and Quinn knew that the years they had together were growing short.

Quinn's eyes watered and he felt a painful lump in his throat as he recalled asking Dr. Loerts if his "father" was okay. It was the first time that he had ever referred to Frank Price as his father, even though the quiet, taciturn man had slowly insinuated himself into Quinn's consciousness in that way.

Quinn remembered the day that he moved into the Price home. It had been the day of his parents' funeral. He'd been putting his clothes away, still dressed in his black suit and too stunned to change, when Price came into his new bedroom. Quinn could picture him standing in the middle of the room, his arms dangling at his side, looking ill at ease. Quinn had been holding a stack of white crew-neck undershirts in his hand.

"I know you're about all in, so I'll make this short," Frank had said. "Anna and I don't have children. We didn't plan it that way. It's just the way it worked out. Your father is as close as we came. He was a great lawyer and one of the best men I ever met. When he married your mother, we were overjoyed and we came to love her as much as we loved Pat. Anna and I can't take the place of your parents. We'd never try. But we're here for you whenever you need us."

Quinn warmed quickly to Anna, but it took him years to feel comfortable with Frank Price. Now, when he was close to losing him, the full import of what the feisty old man had done for him flooded in and it made him realize what it would mean to lose Laura, too. Love was a precious commodity, which people possessed rarely in this life. When you found it, you could not let it slip away. Quinn loved Laura and he was going to fight for her. He vowed to call her as soon as he arrived at the courthouse. He would tell her how much he loved her and he would beg her to take him back.

The Multnomah County Courthouse had been constructed in 1914 when there were few cars and parking was easy, so it did not have a garage. Judges with seniority were assigned spaces across the park across from the courthouse in the basement of the Justice Center, but Quinn's parking space was in a garage three blocks away where the county rented space. Quinn stopped at the entrance and put a plastic card in a slot. A metal bar rose and Quinn drove in. His space was in a corner far from the entrance on the lowest floor. The ceiling above the space was low where the ramp from the floor above sloped down and the corner was always in shadow.

There were no other cars around when Quinn parked his Volvo, which was not surprising since it was after nine at night. He knew a security guard patrolled the garage but he did not see him and assumed that he was making his rounds on another level.

Quinn's attache case was in the backseat of the car. He opened the front door and stepped out, closing it behind him. He opened the back door on the driver's side and bent down to retrieve the attache. When he straightened up, he saw movement in the side view mirror. Quinn turned and raised the case reflexively. Whatever the attacker had in his hand bounced off its side, but the blow was hard enough to drive Quinn backward into the side of the car.

Quinn lowered the attache enough to see a tall man wearing jeans, gloves, a dark blue windbreaker and a ski mask. There was a sap in his right hand. Quinn was certain that he was the same man who had broken into his apartment. Quinn was taller and heavier than his assailant but he had never been good with his fists. He had won his only fight in high school because of his size, not his skill. Quinn circled warily, holding the attache in front of him like a shield. The attacker edged closer. Quinn yelled for help. As the scream echoed off the concrete, the attacker feinted with the hand that held the sap. Quinn raised the attache and the man kicked him in his shin. Quinn gasped. His right leg gave way and Quinn dropped his arms while still holding onto the attache. The attacker smashed the sap into the left side of Quinn's head. Quinn's hands flew to his face and he dropped the case. The man hit Quinn in the solar plexus to silence him. Quinn fell against the car, hitting his head hard on the edge of the roof. He started to slump to the floor, but his attacker propped him up.

Quinn was almost unconscious. He heard the driver's door open and felt his attacker push him into the front seat. He wanted to sit up, but his body would not obey him. His vision blurred. Quinn thought he saw his attacker take a handgun out of the windbreaker and place it on the hood of the car. Quinn tried to struggle up, but rough hands grabbed both of his legs. He heard his assailant swear. The man was trying to stuff Quinn's legs into the car.

Quinn suddenly remembered his car keys. The Volvo could be opened or locked from a distance using a small keypad that was attached to the key. The lock button on the automatic door opener doubled as a panic alarm. Quinn groped in his pants pocket until he felt the plastic keypad. Just as his assailant finished pushing one of his legs into the car, Quinn held the lock button down for a count of three. The locks on all four doors clicked down. The attacker stopped, surprised by the sharp sound. The car alarm blared. Adrenaline coursed through Quinn. He kicked out with both feet. They struck solidly and drove the man back. Quinn launched himself out of the car and landed a wild right to the side of his attacker's head. The punch had no force and the man rolled with it, then connected solidly with Quinn's ribs. Quinn grunted and the man struck him in the throat.

"Hey! What's going on here?" a security guard yelled from the far end of the garage. Quinn's attacker glanced toward the guard, doubled up Quinn with a front kick and ran toward the exit. Quinn slumped over the hood of the Volvo just as the guard ran past him. The guard was overweight and out of shape. He chased the attacker for a short distance, then turned back to Quinn.

The judge looked down and saw the handgun. He pocketed it just as the guard asked, "Are you okay?"

Quinn slumped against the car. His throat hurt and he had trouble talking for a moment, so he just nodded.

"You're lucky I came down here on my rounds."

The guard took Quinn's elbow and helped him to straighten up. He picked up Quinn's attache.

"Is this what he was after?" the guard asked.

"That's just a file in one of my cases," Quinn croaked.

The guard realized the area of the garage he was in.

"Are you a judge?"

Quinn nodded.

"You don't think this was some guy you sentenced?"

"No. He was probably after my wallet."

Quinn sat in the car until he caught his breath. He touched the side of his head where he had been sapped, and winced. The back of his head also hurt where it had smacked against the roof of the car, but the skin was not broken. His ribs, shin and head hurt and felt a little sick from being kicked and punched in the body.

"Do you want to go to the hospital?" the guard asked.

"No."

Adrenaline had made the attack seem surreal. Now it was wearing off and Quinn began to shake, as it dawned on him that he could have been killed.

"I'd really like to go to my chambers in the courthouse."

"You're certain?"

"Positive."

He was afraid to return to his apartment, which his assailant had penetrated with ease.

"I'll walk you over to make sure nothing else happens."

"Thanks. And thank you for saving me."

As the guard and Quinn walked to the courthouse, Quinn asked, "Do you have to report this?"

"Definitely."

"It's just that I can't identify the man who attacked me. He was wearing a mask. And he didn't get anything. I don't want to waste police time when there's nothing I can say that will help them."

"This is pretty serious. This guy may have attacked someone else. Besides, it's the rules."

"Will the police have to talk to me right away? I'm pretty tired. I'd rather give my statement tomorrow."

"I'll see what I can do."

The security guard rode up with Quinn to his floor. Quinn unlocked the door to his office. He heard the guard report the attack on Fran's phone while he washed his face in the bathroom.

The guard rapped on the doorjamb and Quinn stepped out of the bathroom.

"You're okay for tonight. They're gonna send over a patrolman in the afternoon."

The guard left. As soon as the door closed, Quinn took a step forward and the gun slapped against his side. Quinn took it out. When the policeman interviewed him about the attack tomorrow, he would give it to him. As he looked at the weapon a thought occurred to Quinn. He went through the sequence of the attack. The man had used a sap, so he wanted Quinn unconscious. When the assailant believed that Quinn was unconscious, he put the gun on the hood of the car and tried to stuff Quinn's legs into the car. Why do that? Why not just use the gun?

An answer occurred to Quinn. He felt ill. The police had the photographs of Quinn and Andrea in the Cove of Lost Souls. They suspected him of killing the woman at the Heathman. His assailant was planning on making it look like Quinn had committed suicide in his car. The gun would be placed in Quinn's hand. When the body was discovered it would look like Quinn had killed himself rather than face disgrace. An investigation might have cleared Quinn. Suicide would end the case.

Quinn let the gun rest in his hand and he flashed back to the fight in the garage. He'd been beaten, but he had fought back and it had felt good. For the first time since this insanity had started, he had not been a punching bag. He wondered what he would have done if he'd had the gun when he was attacked. He knew nothing about guns, but he believed that he would have fired it. The thought unsettled Quinn. He had experienced many emotions since Andrea Chapman was murdered, but anger was not one of them. Anger was not an emotion that Quinn felt often. He rarely had a reason to be angry, but he was angry now. Someone was playing with his life and he was going to find out who it was.

Quinn suddenly realized that there was someone else who was in danger, someone who had a motive as strong as Quinn's to discover the people behind the plot to fix the Crease case and the resources to fight back. Quinn went to his desk. He opened Ellen Crease's file and found the form that she had filled out so that she could be released on her own recognizance. Then he dialed her unlisted phone number.

[4]

Two armed and uniformed guards were waiting for Quinn just inside the front gate of the Hoyt estate in a patrol vehicle with the markings of a private security company. As soon as Quinn stopped his car, the passenger door of the patrol car opened and a man with the build of an offensive lineman walked to the gate.

"Please step out of the car, sir, and show me some identification/' he commanded. Quinn noticed that he kept one hand on the butt of a holstered revolver. The guard in the car also watched Quinn's every move.

A gray mist covered Portland and the air was cold and clammy. Quinn shivered and hunched his shoulders. He slid his driver's license through the bars of the front gate. As soon as the guard was satisfied that the judge was the person he claimed to be, he told Quinn to return to his car. Quinn waited while the guard radioed the house, glad to be in a warm place again. Moments later, Quinn heard a low hum. The gate opened wide and the guard told him how to reach the house. Quinn drove through the gate. In the night sky was a dim quarter-moon. Quinn's headlights only made the barest incursion into the thick fog that obscured most of the grounds. Twice he saw an armed guard on patrol.

A handsome man in a gray business suit was waiting for Quinn when he parked in front of the mansion.

"Come in, Judge," the man said, extending a hand. "I'm Jack Brademas, head of security at Hoyt Industries. The senator wanted me to sit in on this meeting."

Quinn shook hands and Brademas led him into the library, where Lou Anthony had talked to Ellen Crease on the evening of the murder. Crease stood up when the men entered. She was wearing jeans and a white shirt under a baggy sweater. A cigar smoldered in an ashtray at her elbow.

"You look cold, Judge," Crease said. "Would you like tea, coffee, or something stronger?"

Quinn noticed a coffee urn and a teapot sitting on a cherrywood sideboard next to several fine-china cups and saucers.

"Coffee, please."

"Would you, Jack?"

Quinn sat down across from Crease in a high-backed chair and Brademas handed him a cup. The senator waited patiently while Quinn took a sip. Quinn's exhaustion was apparent, as was the discolored swelling on the side of the judge's face.

"'When you called me, you sounded so upset that I agreed to meet with you," Crease said. "Now that I've had some time to think, I'm wondering if this meeting doesn't violate some code of ethics. I am the defendant in a case you're hearing."

"Matters have gone way beyond that, Senator. There are events happening on the periphery of your criminal case of which you have been completely unaware. Both our lives are in danger."

"Please explain that."

"Senator, you have some very powerful enemies. People who will stop at nothing, including murder, to harm you. They have already effectively destroyed my career as a judge. Tonight they tried to kill me."

"What?"

"Monday evening, a man in a ski mask broke into my apartment. He had photographs of a young woman and me that have the potential of destroying my career and my marriage. The man threatened to make the pictures public if I didn't fix your case so that you would be convicted of murdering your husband and Martin Jablonski."

"But you ruled for me. You destroyed the State's case."

"Yes. I did the only thing I could think of to protect you," Quinn said softly. "Because of what I did, a woman was murdered and an attempt was made on my life."

"Judge, this is getting a bit confusing," Jack Brademas interrupted sympathetically. "If we're going to help, we have to know everything that's happened to you. Why don't you start at the beginning?"

Quinn recounted the trip to St. Jerome, the ruse that was used to trick Laura into flying to Miami, the visit from Claire Reston, his discovery of the second explanation for the blood spatter evidence found on the armoire, Reston's murder, and the recent attempt on his life.

"I think that Martin Jablonski was paid to murder you, Senator," Quinn concluded. "When he failed and you were arrested for your husband's murder, I was set up. Now that I've double-crossed the blackmailers, they're trying to frame me for Reston's murder and kill me. But I'm not the main focus of these people. You are. And that means that you're also in danger."

"Judge, I can't begin to thank you for the sacrifices you've made for me. I owe you everything. Quite possibly my life."

Quinn looked down, embarrassed. Crease thought silently for a moment. Then she blew an angry plume of smoke into the air and said, "Benjamin Gage has to behind this. He and Junior are the only people I can think of who hate me enough to want me dead, and Junior is too stupid to dream up a scheme this complex."

Brademas nodded. "I drew the same conclusion."

He turned to Quinn.

"Benjamin Gage's administrative assistant is a man named Ryan Clark. He's an ex-navy SEAL. As soon as you told us that a man in scuba gear snatched the Chapman woman I thought of Clark. Pulling off a fake abduction underwater would be a piece of cake for someone with Clark's skills."

"How did he do it?" Quinn asked. "I never saw Andrea surface for air."

"She wouldn't have to. There's an emergency breathing apparatus attached to all air tanks. She could have used the one on Clark's tank while they were underwater."

"What do you think we should do next, Judge?" Crease asked.

"I think that the key to discovering the person behind this plot is learning the true identity of Andrea Chapman or Claire Reston or whatever her real name is. If we find out who she is, we might be able to find a link between her and the people who are after us."

"Jack can trace her, Judge," Crease said. "He was a Portland Police officer before he came to work for my husband's company. We knew each other on the force. He still has contacts in the bureau.

"Jack, can you get copies of the investigative reports of the murder at the Heathman? We need to know the identity of the murdered woman and where she lived. Then we can try to find out how she got mixed up in this."

"Til have the information by tomorrow afternoon," Brademas assured his boss.

"Good. Why don't you also think about the information that Judge Quinn has given us and see if you can come up with any other avenues of investigation?"

Brademas left and Crease turned to Quinn. "It looks like we're both in more trouble than we ever wanted to be." Crease sighed heavily. "If the latest polls hold, my political career will be over. The only way I can save it is by proving that I was framed. Otherwise, people will always believe that I hired Jablonski and beat the rap on a technicality."

"It might help if I went public and told everyone about the blackmail attempt."

"It would only help if we can prove that we were both set up and who is behind this conspiracy. Otherwise, anything you say will sound like an attempt to exonerate yourself in the Reston murder. Besides, going public would destroy your career and I couldn't let you do that for me."

"My career is over, anyway. I'm stepping down from the bench tomorrow. When I was attacked, I was going back to the courthouse to write my letter of resignation."

"Don't do that. You're a good judge. If you resign from the bench, you're letting the bastards who set us up win. It took guts to rule for me. It was the right thing to do. Let Jack and me work on this. And don't give up hope. That's what you'd be doing if you resign."

Chapter 21.

[1]

When Quinn walked into Stanley Sax's chambers, the presiding judge took a hard look at the yellowish purple bruise that spread across the left side of Quinn's face.

"Are you okay?"

"Physically, I'm fine. Emotionally . . . that's something else."

"I can imagine. You're the talk of the courthouse. First that ruling in Crease, then this attack in the garage."

"I want to take some time off, Stan."

"That makes sense. How long do you want?"

"I cleared my desk when I thought that the Crease trial would take most of the month. I can take a few days off without disrupting the work of the court. I'll write memos in all of my cases so that any judge you assign will be able to get up to speed easily."

"All right. Being attacked like that has to be frightening. Go home and rest. Call me next week and let me know how you feel. Maybe you and Laura should head for the coast. Lily and I used to rent a little bungalow in Cannon Beach and watch the storms with hot buttered rums and a good fire." Sax smiled. "A little romance is a great remedy for the blues."

Sax's reminder of his empty marriage hurt, but Quinn faked a smile and said, "Thanks for the advice and for being so understanding."

Sax waved off Quinn. The judge left Sax's chambers and headed for his own. Fran Stuart examined Quinn's face. Before she could ask, Quinn said, "This looks pretty bad, but I'm fine."

Fran handed Quinn a stack of messages. As Quinn thumbed quickly through the stack to see if there was one from Crease or Brademas, his secretary said, "Most of these are from friends asking if you're okay or from reporters who want to interview you. There was also a call from an Officer Ramirez. He wanted to set up an appointment for this afternoon so he can get a statement about the attack."

Quinn looked at his watch. It was a little after three. He could probably fit in Ramirez around four-thirty. Quinn started toward his office.

"And your wife called several times." Quinn's heart jumped. "She wanted you to call her as soon as you got in."

Quinn had been too exhausted physically and emotionally to call Laura after his visit to Ellen Crease. Her calls made Quinn anxious. Was she calling to reconcile or to ask for a divorce?

"Oh," Fran said, "there was one unusual call. It came in ten minutes ago. A woman named Denise Ritter. She said it was urgent. She wanted to talk to you about that woman who was murdered at the Heathman Hotel. She said that she's the woman's sister."

"Her sister?"

"Yes. She sounded very upset."

"Thank you, Fran."

Quinn thumbed through his messages until he found the slip with Ritter's phone number. It had a Seattle area code. The phone rang twice, then a woman answered.

"Is this Denise Ritter?" Quinn asked.

"Yes?"

This is Judge Richard Quinn."

Quinn could hear breathing on the other end of the phone.

"Ms. Ritter?"

"I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have called."

"Is this about the woman who was murdered?"

"Yes. Marie is . . . was my sister."

Quinn heard the woman's breath catch. Then he heard a sob.

"'Are you all right?"

"I'm sorry. I ... I flew down this morning on the shuttle to identify Marie's body."

"That must have been awful."

"The detectives were very kind, but ..."

Ritter's voice trailed off and Quinn heard her blowing her nose. She apologized again.

"Ms. Ritter, why did you call me?"

"The detectives showed me a picture of you and Marie on a beach."

"You told them that the woman in the pictures was Marie?"

"Yes."

"Did they seemed surprised?"

"Now that you mention it, they did."

" 4What did they ask you when you said that?"

"They wanted to know if Marie had ever mentioned you, but they wouldn't tell me why they were asking."

Ritter hesitated. Then she said, 4 Judge, Marie and I weren't close. Especially these past few years. I was hoping you could tell me what went wrong. How this happened."

"Ms. Ritter, I would like to talk with you about Marie, too. If I took the shuttle to Seattle, would you meet with me tonight?"

[2]

The shuttle touched down a little after six P. M. Twenty minutes later, the cab Quinn hired at Sea-Tac Airport rounded a curve on the freeway and the judge saw the massive, glass and concrete structures that dominated Seattle's city center. Seattle had its share of interesting architecture: the Space Needle towered over everything, and the Pike Place Market, a collection of ramshackle stalls, shops and restaurants seemingly held together by glue, tottered on a hillside overlooking Elliott Bay. However, Seattle's buildings were nowhere near as spectacular as its geography. The "Emerald City" sat on a narrow strip of land between Puget Sound and eighteen-mile-long Lake Washington. Massive Mount Rainier dominated the landscape east of the city, and to the west were the jagged peaks of the Olympic Mountains.

Shortly after reaching the city, the cab turned off the interstate and traveled downhill toward the Pioneer Square Historic District, an area of late-Victorian and early-twentieth-century buildings that had been built up after the Great Fire of 1889. Day and night, the district swarmed with crowds attracted to its galleries, restaurants, antique shops and theaters. Denise Ritter had agreed to meet Quinn in an espresso bar at First and James near the original Pioneer Square. Quinn spotted the totem pole in the square before he located the cafe, a dark and narrow space squeezed between a gallery featuring Native American art and an occult bookstore. Toward the back of the espresso bar, a woman wearing a peasant dress nervously scanned the door.

Denise Ritter bore little resemblance to her sister. She was five nine and stoop-shouldered. Her hair was black like Marie's, but it was frizzy and collected behind her in a barrette, and her blue eyes hid behind thick, tortoiseshell glasses. Behind the thick lenses, Ritter's eyes were red from crying. When she noticed Quinn walking toward her, Ritter seemed to pull into herself. It took Quinn a moment to realize that Marie had modeled her Claire Reston persona on her real sister.

"Tm Richard Quinn," the judge said when he reached Ritter's table. Ritter held out her hand selfconsciously and Quinn took it. The skin felt cold and she looked exhausted.

"Are you all right?" Quinn asked as he sat down.

"No," Ritter answered frankly. "Seeing Marie like that was really hard for me."

She could not go on and Quinn was relieved when a skinny waiter in jeans and a T-shirt walked up to the table. Quinn asked for coffee. Ritter was nursing a latte.

"I appreciate your willingness to meet with me, under the circumstances," Quinn told Ritter.

"I'm doing this as much for me as for you. Marie was my sister. What I don't understand is your interest."

"What did the police tell you about me?"

"That you knew Marie."

"Did they say that I was a suspect in Marie's death?"

The question startled Ritter. She shook her head while examining Quinn more closely.

"And Marie never mentioned me to you, or talked about a judge that she knew?"

Ritter looked down at the tabletop. "I rarely talked to Marie about her business."

"What exactly did you understand Marie's business to be?"

Ritter sighed sadly. "Marie was a call girl, Judge. A prostitute."

Quinn should have been shocked, but he wasn't. If you wanted to hire a woman to seduce a man, seeking the services of a professional made sense.

"Did Marie work in Seattle?"

"Yes."

"Did she ever work in Portland?"

"I don't know. She never told me she did, but I disapproved of Marie's . . . lifestyle and she knew it, so it was rare for her to discuss her profession with me."

"I want you to know that before today I did not know that Marie was a prostitute," Quinn said firmly. "She told me that she designed belts. I thought she worked in the fashion industry. Did she ever do anything like that?"

"Marie! Not that I knew of."

"Would you mind talking about your sister?"

Ritter brushed at her eyes. Her lower lip trembled.

"Marie was two years younger than me. She was always rebellious. I was a good student. Marie was at least as intelligent as I am, but she barely passed. She was into drugs, boys. My parents tried everything. Eventually, they gave up. When she was eighteen, Marie was arrested for prostitution and my parents kicked her out of the house. She wasn't really living at home then, anyway. After that, they wouldn't have anything to do with her."

"Do your parents know that Marie is dead?"

"No. I haven't told them. I don't know what to say. They wrote Marie off years ago."

"How close were you to your sister?"

"That's hard to answer. We saw very little of each other when I was at college and graduate school. After I moved back to Seattle to take a teaching job we started meeting a little more, but there wasn't any plan to it. Sometimes she would just drop by or she'd call on the spur of the moment and we'd go out for dinner. A lot of the times when she called I thought it was because she was lonely, but, if I asked her, she would always pretend to be upbeat and tell me how great her life was."

Ritter paused and took a sip of her latte. When she looked up, there were tears in her eyes.

"There were other times when she would show up out of the blue, strung out or just needing a place to stay. I knew she wanted help when she came to me like that. I even got her to go into a rehab program once. The last few times I saw her I think she was clean, but I'm so naive I don't think I could really tell if she was using."

Quinn handed Ritter his handkerchief.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I guess we really weren't that close. We were so different. But she was my sister and she was so lost. The last time we were together I tried to talk her into getting a straight job. She just laughed. She said she was doing great and was going to do better. She looked like she was, too. She was wearing expensive clothes and jewelry I hadn't seen before."

"Where was she getting her money? I know you said that she was a call girl. Was that her only job? Did she have a pimp?"

"No, not a pimp. From what I could figure out, she worked for an escort service. But it was a front for a call girl operation."

Denise paused. She suddenly looked very thoughtful.

"That last time I saw Marie, the time I told you about, when she was dressed in the expensive clothes, that was in mid-February. She was very up, very excited, and that was strange, because I knew she didn't enjoy earning her money the way she did. She'd told me that much."

Quinn had been in St. Jerome in late February. He was sure that Marie Ritter's sudden, mid-February good fortune was connected to the blackmail plot.

"Did Marie tell you why she was excited or how she got the money for the clothes?"

"Not specifically. She did talk about making a lot of money and I had the impression that the money she was going to make wasn't connected to the escort service.

That it was something that she had going on the side. But I can't be certain of that."

"Did your sister have any friends I might talk to?"

"Marie mentioned someone named Christy a few times and another woman named Robin, but all I know about them is their first names."

"Did your sister ever talk about her customers?"

"I didn't encourage Marie to talk about what she did. It was very distasteful to me, that kind of life." Ritter shuddered. "I can't even imagine it.

"When she did speak about the men she'd been with, it was usually with contempt, but she never mentioned their names and I didn't ask. She thought most of them were pathetic. There were a few she said were okay, but generally she would laugh about them. As I said, I didn't enjoy discussing what she did, except to try to get her to stop."

"Denise, did your sister ever mention any customers from Portland?"

"Not that I can recall." Ritter paused. "She did tell me that there was a man she had seen more than once who lived in Oregon. He had some kind of business in Seattle. It was something odd."

"Can you remember what it was?"

Ritter brightened. "She said he was an undertaker. Marie thought that was funny."

Quinn felt a surge of excitement. "Denise, this is important. Did she describe this man? Can you remember anything she said about him?"

Ritter frowned, then shook her head.

"All I remember was his business."

"She never said how old he was?"

"She said he didn't dress or act like she thought an undertaker would. I think he was a flashy dresser and he liked to dance all night, so I assumed that he was young, but she never told me his age."

" Do you have any idea how I can get in touch with Marie's escort service?"

"No. I don't even know where Marie was living these past few months."

Ritter paused. Then she looked directly at Quinn.

"I've been trying to build up the courage to ask you something since you walked in, Judge."

"Go ahead and ask your question."

"What was your connection with my sister?"

"I met her on a plane when I flew to the Caribbean to speak at a legal conference. We spent the next day on the beach you saw in the picture. I think Marie was hired to make friends with me, then seduce me. When the police searched the hotel room where Marie was murdered, they found those pictures in her suitcase and they brought me to the hotel room. They thought that I might have killed her, but I didn't. I could never hurt someone the way your sister was hurt."

Ritter digested this information. Then she took a deep breath and looked directly at Quinn.

"The detectives . . . They only pulled back the sheet enough to show me Marie's face and I was too upset to ask. Was she . . . ? Did she feel much pain?"

Quinn flashed back to the room. For a brief moment, he saw Marie Ritter's savaged body.

"I'm afraid she did," the judge answered gendy.

Ritter's eyes watered. She bit her lip.

"Please tell me what happened."

"Marie, you don't want to know that. That isn't going to do you any good."

"Please," Ritter pleaded.

Quinn sighed and described what he had seen in the hotel room as delicately as was possible. When he was through, Ritter spaced out for a moment.

"I knew this would happen if she stayed in that life. I tried to talk to her, but she wouldn't listen to me."

"You can only do so much. Don't make the mistake of thinking that this was your fault or that there was some way that you could have saved her. Some people don't want to be saved. Promise me that you're not going to take this burden on your shoulders."

Ritter sighed. "No, I won't make that mistake."

"Good. That's good. The killer took your sister. Don't you let him take you, too."

[3]

Quinn was barely conscious of the fifty-minute flight back to Portland. All he could think about was the information that Denise Ritter had given to him. Mary Garrett had filed a pretrial discovery motion claiming that she had not received all of the police reports in the possession of the prosecution. To resolve the issue, Quinn had been forced to review the reports. He had read Detective Anthony's interview with Charles DePaul. If Junior knew that his father was going to change his will, he would have a clear motive for hiring Jablonski to kill his father and Ellen Crease. If Junior knew that Crease could not benefit from the will if she was convicted of her husband's murder, Junior would have a motive to blackmail Quinn. Quinn suddenly remembered the argument between Junior and his father at Hoyt Industries that Anthony had learned about during his interview with Stephen Appling. Were they arguing about the will?

How could he find out the cause of the argument? Only Junior and his father were present. An idea occurred to Quinn. Karen Fargo had to be the woman who was going to be the new beneficiary of Hoyt's will. She was his mistress when the argument occurred. Men talked to their mistresses about the things that bothered them.

Quinn's first impulse was to tell Ellen Crease about his discovery in Seattle. Jack Brademas could talk to Fargo. He was a professional investigator, a former policeman. But that wouldn't work. Fargo would never talk to anyone connected to Ellen Crease. He would have to do it.

A light rain was falling when Quinn's flight landed at nine-thirty. He found Fargo's address in the phone book and drove straight from the Portland Airport to her yellow and white Cape Cod. The judge parked out front shortly after ten o'clock. There were lights on in the front room. Quinn dashed across the street and huddled under the overhang that shaded the front door. He rang the bell. The sound from a television show stopped and a curtain moved. Moments later, the front door opened as wide as the safety chain would permit.

"Ms. Fargo?"

"Yes?" she responded warily.

"I'm Richard Quinn. I'm a judge. I heard the case against Ellen Crease."

Fargo recognized Quinn from the television broadcasts about the case.

"What do you want from me?"

Quinn smiled to put Fargo at ease. "It would be great if I could get inside. I forgot my umbrella."

Water was running down Quinn's face and beading on his raincoat. Fargo opened the door and let Quinn inside. He ran a hand through his hair to rid it of some of the rain.

"I apologize for coming so late and not calling first. I wouldn't disturb you if this wasn't important."

Fargo walked into the living room and gestured toward the couch. Quinn took off his coat so he would not dampen her furniture. Fargo sat forward on her chair watching Quinn.

"You know that I ruled against the State in the pretrial hearings?"

Fargo nodded.

"Some new information has come to me that I didn't have when I made the ruling. I'm afraid I can t tell you what it is. I hope you understand."

"Certainly."

"I've learned that Lamar Hoyt and his son had an argument shortly before Mr. Hoyt was murdered. It's suddenly become important to find out the substance of the argument, but no one knows what they talked about. I was wondering if Mr. Hoyt mentioned it to you."

"Yes. He did. I ... I never told anyone about it because I didn't think that it was important."

"That's okay, Ms. Fargo. You wouldn't have understood why I need to know about the argument. Can you tell me what Mr. Hoyt said?"

"I don't remember the date."

"That's okay."

"I do remember Lamar visiting in the early evening. He was very angry about Junior."

"Why?"

"He thought he was skimming money from the mortuary business. Profits were down and he was furious. He was having Junior investigated and the investigator had found out that Junior was living way beyond his means. The argument occurred when Lamar confronted Junior with the things that the investigator found."

"Did Mr. Hoyt mention anything specific that the investigator had found?"

Fargo colored. "Most of it had to do with women."

"Dates?"

Fargo shook her head. "There was some of that, but Lamar said that Junior was also paying expensive prostitutes. Lamar also thought that Junior was using cocaine. It was very sordid and Lamar was furious."

[4]

Laura's calls had been on Quinn's mind all day, but he had been either too busy to call her or too afraid. If she wanted a divorce, he did not want to learn about it when he was tired and run-down. But what if she wanted him back? As soon as he returned to his apartment, Quinn poured himself a stiff drink and phoned Laura.

"Dick!" Laura responded with obvious relief when she heard his voice. "Where are you? I've been trying to reach you all day."

"I'm at my apartment, but I was in Seattle earlier today."

"What were you doing there?"

"It would take too long to explain. Fran told me that you called several times. What did you want to talk to me about?"

"I need to see you." Laura's voice wavered. "Can you come home?"

"Now?"

"Yes. Please."

Quinn had rarely heard uncertainty in Laura's voice and this was the first time he had ever heard her plead. If she was anything, Laura was a model of self-confidence, always certain that she was right, always the one who made the demands, never the supplicant.

"I'll come over right away."

"Thank you, Dick."

Quinn hung up the phone and stood quietly for a moment. He had wanted to say something more, to tell Laura that he still loved her, but he couldn't, because he was afraid of what she would say.

? ? *

Laura looked tense when she opened the front door for Quinn. She was dressed casually in a blue warm-up suit, but she had put on makeup and her hair was combed carefully. He hoped that was a good sign.

"Take off your coat. Let's sit down." Laura pointed toward the living room. "I even made you a drink."

Quinn saw a glass of Scotch resting on an end table next to the couch. He shucked his coat and followed Laura. She sat opposite him with a coffee table between them.

"I've been rehearsing this, so let me just talk, okay? When I married you we seemed to have the same goals. Then you left the firm to become a judge. It was hard for me to accept that. I felt betrayed. It wasn't just the money. It was the life I'd planned for the two of us. I couldn't understand how you could walk away from your partnership, something that I coveted so much. I think we started drifting apart after you made that choice. I'm not saying it was your fault. But it's true. Something changed in the marriage. Or maybe I changed. It doesn't matter.

"I really was sorry when the Miami client hired me, but I honestly believed that I owed it to the firm to take him on. Then the job turned out to be a hoax. I was furious. All I wanted to do was to fly back to Portland. I started to phone the airline when I remembered how sad you had been when I told you I couldn't go with you to St. Jerome. I remembered your voice on the phone. You sounded so . . ."

Laura shook her head. "I stopped with my hand in the air. It was ... I don't know . . . like a light going on, like I was suddenly hearing something clearly that had only been a murmur. I realized how much pain you were in and that I was the cause of that pain. I asked myself what I wanted to happen to our marriage and I didn't know the answer to that question. That's why I flew to St. Jerome. I hoped that I could figure out how I really felt about us by being there with you, away from Portland and the law office and my work. I knew that there was something terribly wrong with our marriage and I wanted to try and cure it. But everything fell apart after I arrived."

Laura stopped to collect herself. She was a person who kept her feelings to herself and Quinn could see how painful it was for her to reveal her emotions.

"I was in Los Angeles on business on Wednesday and Thursday. Today, two detectives visited me at the office. They told me about the woman who was murdered at the Heathman. They wanted to know about the woman who disappeared on St. Jerome. They showed me pictures of the two of you on the beach.

"I didn't understand where they were going, at first. The black detective, Dennis, is very smooth. When it became clear that they thought you might have killed the woman at the hotel, I had to make a decision. I asked myself if I truly believed that you could murder someone the way they said that poor woman was killed. I had to decide what type of person I married and I decided that you could never do that."

"Laura, some other things have happened to me this past week that you don't know about. They explain why the woman at the hotel was murdered. I love you very much. The one thing I want more than anything in the world is for us to be together again. But I don't want to hide anything from you."

Laura waited for Quinn to continue. The look of wariness on her face frightened Quinn. By the time he finished explaining about the blackmail attempt by the man in the ski mask, Claire Reston's visit to his chambers and the way he had decided the Crease case, her expression was unreadable.

"After I suppressed the evidence, I prepared for the worst, but I never dreamed that the blackmailers would murder someone to frame me. I've been sick about it. The way that woman died ..."

"Why didn't the blackmailers just carry out their threat and send the photographs to the authorities on St. Jerome?"

"They couldn't, Laura. Andrea Chapman did not die on St. Jerome."

"What?"

"It was a hoax. The woman who posed as Andrea Chapman on St. Jerome and the woman who pretended to be Claire Reston were the same person, Marie Ritter, a Seattle call girl. Ritter has a distinctive scar on her hip. I saw it in the cove and I saw it on Reston's body in the hotel room. By killing Ritter, the blackmailer got rid of a witness at the same time that he set me up for her murder. Last night he tried to wrap everything up by killing me."

Laura's eyes widened. "Fran told me that someone attacked you in the parking garage. I thought that was a robbery attempt."

"The man who attacked me is the same man who broke into my apartment."

"God, Dick. Do you have any idea who's behind this plot?"

"Benjamin Gage has an aide who is an ex-SEAL. He'd have had no trouble faking the underwater murder on St. Jerome. But I talked to Marie Ritter's sister in Seattle. She told me that Marie had a customer who lives in Oregon. Denise didn't know his name, but she had the impression that he's young and he's an undertaker."

"Lamar Hoyt's son."

"Yes. And I've also learned that Junior and his father quarreled shortly before Hoyt's death because Senior believed that his son was skimming money from the mortuary business."

"Then you think Junior is behind everything?"

"'That's where the evidence seems to be pointing, but Lamar, Jr., and Ryan Clark are both the same size as the blackmailer and the man who attacked me in the garage."

"Have you given this information to the police?"

"No. I just learned the information about Lamar, Jr., tonight and I really can't prove that Junior knew Ritter. Marie never told Denise the name of her client. If Junior denies knowing Ritter, we can't prove he's lying."

"And Hoyt's statements to Fargo are hearsay."

Quinn closed his eyes and let his head fall back.

"I don't know what I'm going to do, Laura."

"One thing you are not going to do is give up," Laura said forcefully. "We are going to get through this."

Quinn opened his eyes and he looked at his wife hopefully.

"Does that mean that you want me back?"

Laura reached out and took Quinn's hand.

"I put up a good front, Dick, but I'm always scared. I've been scared since my parents divorced. Scared for years and years. Scared that I'll lose everything if I don't work harder than everybody. That I'll end up like my father."

"I have a hard time picturing you failing at anything, Laura."

"Our marriage almost failed, but I'm not going to let it. I do want you back. I want us to try to . . . to be together like we were when . . . when we first ..."

Quinn took Laura in his arms before she could finish. Her body shuddered and so did his. Quinn stroked Laura's hair and kissed the top of her head. She raised her face and Quinn kissed her lips. The kiss was tentative at first, then they were sprawled on the carpet and Laura was opening Quinn s belt. Quinn broke away only for the brief time that it took them to struggle out of their clothes. Then they became a tangle of bodies, soft and hard, the kisses so eager that they both wondered if there would be anything left of them when they were through.

After their first frenzied bout of lovemaking, Quinn and Laura gathered their clothes and went upstairs to the bedroom. The second time they made love it was less frantic and Quinn took his time renewing his acquaintance with a body that had become foreign to him. When they were sated, Quinn collapsed beside Laura. Her hand found his and she said, "I love you."

"I never thought I'd hear you say that again."

"Well, I have. I want our marriage to work, Dick. I want it more than I want anything else. No matter what happens from now on, I'm standing with you."

[5]

Benjamin Gage listened to the recording of Richard Quinn's meeting with Ellen Crease and Jack Brademas for a second time. When the minicassette stopped spinning, Ryan Clark turned off the tape recorder. Gage looked grim.

"Can we use this?" Gage asked.

"No. The recording was obtained illegally. We'd also be forcing Quinn to go public."

"And he'd have to admit that he fixed Crease's case. She'd be discredited."

"Maybe not. Quinn would say that the blackmailer wanted him to make sure that Crease was found guilty. Now that there is an alternative explanation for the blood spatter evidence, a lot of voters will conclude that she's been framed. I don't think we can afford to gamble. Not with you leading in all of the polls."

"You're right." Gage picked up the minicassette. "Have there been more of these?"

"One other. The information wasn't useful, but the intelligence on this cassette is certainly interesting."

"Our man seems to be on top of things. Make sure he's taken care of. I want him working hard for us."

Chapter 22.

[1]

When Lou Anthony arrived at work Saturday morning there was a message from Denise Ritter asking him to call. Ritter sounded nervous when the detective identified himself.

"Something happened yesterday. I wasn't going to call, at first. I ... I don't want to get anyone in trouble. But I thought about Marie. That this might help find the person who killed her."

"Finding your sister's killer is very important to me, Ms. Ritter. If you have information that might help, please tell me."

"When you and Detective Dennis interviewed me you asked if Marie ever mentioned Richard Quinn. She didn't. She never said that she knew any judge."

Denise Ritter hesitated. Anthony waited patiently for her to continue.

"I hope I didn't do anything wrong, but I couldn't stop thinking about that question, so I called Judge Quinn. He flew to Seattle yesterday evening."

"Quinn flew up to see you?"

"Yes."

"What did you two talk about?"

"Marie mostly. He told me how they met on St. Jerome . . ."

"He knew that the woman in the photograph I showed you was your sister? The woman who was murdered at the Heathman?"

"He seemed to know. Why?"

"Nothing. It's not that important. Go on."

"I did tell Judge Quinn one thing that I didn't tell you. That's why I'm calling. I thought about it all night. Judge Quinn seemed to think it was important, so I decided that you should know, too."

"What is it that you think I should know?"

"The judge asked me if Marie had any clients from Portland. I told him that Marie didn't tell me the name of any of the men she had been with, but she did tell me that one of them lived in Oregon. The only reason I remembered what Marie said was because he had an odd job. She said he was an undertaker."

Anthony and Ritter talked for a few more moments. The detective was thanking her when Leroy Dennis strolled over to Anthony's desk. Anthony waved him into a seat, finished with Ritter and hung up.

"The person on the phone was Denise Ritter. She called to tell me that Judge Quinn flew up to Seattle yesterday and pumped her about her sister's background."

"No kidding?"

"No kidding. She also told me that Quinn knew that Andrea Chapman and Claire Reston were the same person. But that's not the most important thing Denise told me. It seems that one of her sister's customers was an undertaker from Oregon."

"Whoa.'*

"Yeah, whoa."

"What are you thinking, Lou?"

"What if Junior learned that his father was going to marry Karen Fargo and alter his will in her favor? Steve Appling said that the two Lamars had a pretty bad argument shortly before the murder. Maybe that's when Junior discovered Senior's plan."

"So you think Junior may have hired Jablonski to kill his father?"

"And Crease. With both of them dead, he would inherit everything. But Jablonski screwed up and got himself killed, so Junior's plan failed. Then Crease was arrested and Junior had a second chance. If Crease was convicted of hiring Jablonski to kill her husband she couldn't benefit from the will. I think Junior used Ritter to blackmail Judge Quinn."

"Damn, you may be right."

"It would certainly explain the way Quinn is acting. Those photographs scream blackmail, Leroy."

"And Denise Ritter has just supplied the link between Junior and her sister," Dennis answered thoughtfully. Then he frowned. "But there are problems with your scenario, Lou."

"Such as?"

"Jablonski for one. He was in prison for a long time. When he was out, he wasn't running in Junior's circle. How did they meet?"

"I don't know, but I'm gonna nail Junior's ass as soon as I find out."

"And another thing," Dennis continued. "Until you learned about this possible connection between Marie Ritter and Hoyt, you thought Crease killed her husband."

"She still could be good for it," Anthony answered grudgingly. "That blood spatter evidence bothers the hell out of me."

"Exactly. And don't forget Judge Quinn. If Ritter was blackmailing him, he'd have a powerful motive to kill her."

Anthony sighed. "I have to admit that I've been really pissed at Quinn since he accused me of lying, but I have a hard time seeing him as Ritter's killer."

"Quinn has been acting like a man with something to hide."

"No doubt about that. The judge flat out lied about knowing Ritter and he continued to lie after being confronted with the pictures, but I still don't make Quinn for the Ritter killing. Any man can commit murder under the right circumstances. Ritter threatens to ruin Quinn, go to his wife, go to the press. Quinn hits her in a rage. One moment of passion, one dead woman. But that isn't what we have here. Marie Ritter was raped and systematically tortured. My gut tells me that Quinn couldn't kill her like that."

"So you think that the judge is concealing information about the murder because he's being blackmailed?"

"That's the only way I can explain the way the judge has been acting. Quinn definitely saw those pictures before we showed them to him at the Heathman. He almost peed his pants when he saw them, but he didn't ask a single question about where they came from or how we got them. And why else would he be playing detective in Seattle? I think he's trying to figure out who killed Ritter himself."

Dennis thought about what Anthony had just said. His brow furrowed. Then Dennis shot up in his seat.

"Hot damn. If someone did use those pictures to blackmail Quinn it might be our lucky break."

"I don't follow you."

"If Junior was the blackmailer he would have ordered Quinn to fix the case so that Crease would be convicted."

Anthony frowned. "Quinn rigged the case for Crease."

"Right."

"That puts us back to square one again with Crease as the main suspect."

"Not necessarily. I've been checking on Quinn. Everybody says that the man's a saint, and I mean everybody. Real high principles. Look at the way he sent that Eugene judge to jail. Everyone was betting that he'd give him probation. It's possible that the blackmailer ordered Quinn to make certain that Crease was convicted and Quinn just couldn't do it."

"So where does that leave us?"

"I think the key to identifying the blackmailer is finding out what Quinn was told to do, not what he really did. And to do that, we've got to ask the judge."

[2]

On Saturday morning, Quinn and Laura slept until nine-thirty. They decided to visit Frank Price at the hospital. After that Quinn would go to the courthouse. He had put his decision to resign on hold, but he still had to prepare the memos on his cases so he could take time off.

Quinn was washing the breakfast dishes when the doorbell rang. Laura looked up from the paper when her husband walked to the door. Quinn peered through the peephole. Lou Anthony and Leroy Dennis were standing on the welcome mat.

"Good morning, Judge," Dennis said. "May we come in?"

"What's this about?" Quinn asked warily.

Dennis glanced at Laura. He looked uncomfortable.

"Maybe we should talk in private, Judge."

"I have nothing to hide from my wife."

Dennis hesitated. "Some of the questions we're going to ask . . . The subjects are delicate."

"I repeat. I have nothing to hide from my wife."

Quinn led the detectives into the living room.

"What do you want to know?" he asked when they were all seated.

"Denise Ritter called me this morning and told me about your trip to Seattle," Anthony said. "What were you doing up there?"

"She called me. She said that she wanted to talk to me about her sister."

"So you hop a jet and fly to Seattle?"

Quinn did not respond.

"Why didn't you tell me that Andrea Chapman and Claire Reston were the same person when we were at the crime scene?"

"I only suspected that the two women were the same when I saw the dead woman at the hotel. I wasn't certain. I was pretty upset."

"I remember," Dennis said, "and I can't believe that you want the person who tortured Marie Ritter to death to get away with it."

"I don't."

"That's not the way you're acting," Dennis said.

"We think that you have information that will help us identify Marie Ritter's killer," Anthony told Quinn.

"We're counting on your decency, Judge," Dennis said. "We're counting on you coming through for us."

"What is this information that you believe I have?"

"I'm gonna put my cards on the table," Anthony told Quinn. "We have evidence that points to a suspect other than Senator Crease. You know who I'm talking about. Denise Ritter told you that her sister had a customer from Oregon who was an undertaker. If Lamar Hoyt, Jr., is the customer, he becomes suspect number one.

"Now we come to you, Judge. I've been on the losing side of motions before. Hell, everyone screws up. But no judge has ever accused me of intentionally lying under oath. When I calmed down I asked myself why you did what you did. It was a mystery, until we found those pictures of you and Ritter. Then everything fell into place."

"Lou and I are certain that you were blackmailed to fix Ellen Crease's case," Dennis said, feeling vindicated by the swift shift of emotions on Quinn's face. "What we need to know is whether the blackmailer wanted you to acquit Crease or convict her. We figure that Junior would have asked you to make certain that Crease was convicted. If Senator Crease was blackmailing you, she would want you to fix the case so that she couldn't be convicted."

"So there it is, Judge," Anthony told Quinn. "If you tell us that the blackmailer wanted you to convict Ellen Crease, we'll concentrate on Lamar Hoyt, Jr. If you tell us that you were ordered to acquit Crease, we'll go to the D. A. with that."

"And you'll ask Cedric Riker to move to set aside Dick's order on the grounds that it was obtained by fraud," Laura told Anthony.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered without hesitation. "We'd have to."

"That would expose my husband to disbarment, criminal charges and disgrace."

"There is no way around that."

"Of course," Dennis said quickly, "we could work out something with the criminal charges."

"Like the Eugene Police did with Frederick Gideon?" Laura said.

Dennis blinked.

"Detectives," Laura said, "my husband won't answer any more of your questions without consulting an attorney."

Dennis and Anthony sagged.

"Laura," Quinn started.

"Listen to me on this, Dick."

Quinn wanted to talk to the detectives, but he realized that Laura was right.

"I appreciate the way you've handled this case and the consideration you've shown me," Quinn told the detectives. "I'm not ruling out our talking further. But you know how serious a decision this is for me."

"I know that, Judge," Dennis agreed.

"Just give me some time to think."

"Cedric Riker also suspects that you fixed Crease's hearing and he wants your blood. If Riker had his way, we'd be questioning you at the station with a rubber hose and klieg lights shining in your eyes. I'd rather trust your good instincts and have you cooperate because you know it's the right thing to do, but we can't wait very long for you to decide."

"You see our position?" Dennis asked. "We have a very dangerous person running free. That person has murdered Marie Ritter and was responsible for the death of Lamar Hoyt. He also attacked you. Remember, Judge, you're the key witness here and the killer knows that. He tried to kill you once. You can bet he'll try again."

Quinn thought about that. If he were attacked at home, Laura would be in danger.

"Before you go," Quinn said, "there is something else I learned that might help you. Lamar Hoyt suspected that Junior was skimming from the mortuary business. That's why they argued at Hoyt Industries headquarters."

"How do you know that?"

"Karen Fargo told me last night."

Anthony colored. "Damn it, Judge, you are not one of the Hardy Boys. Stay the hell out of this investigation.

You hear me?"

Laura showed the detectives to the door. Then she returned to the living room, where she found Quinn looking totally lost.

"What should I do?" he asked as soon as Laura sat beside him.

"If you admit to the police that you fixed Ellen Crease's case you can bank on being forced to resign from the bench and you face the additional threats of being disbarred and prosecuted criminally."

"Maybe I don't deserve to stay on the bench. I covered up what I thought was a murder. I fixed a case."

"You had good reasons for not going to the authorities on St. Jerome and you decided the motion to suppress the way you did to protect Ellen Crease."

"I could have told the police about the blackmail threat, withdrawn from the case and let another judge take over."

"Yes. You probably should have, but you didn't. We have to deal with what really happened. I guess the problem is that anything you do puts you in jeopardy. The ideal solution would be for the police to arrest the killer without your assistance."

"Without my help they might never be able to do that."

[3]

Anthony dropped off Leroy Dennis at the police station, then drove to Karen Fargo's house. He got along well with the witness and he had explained to Dennis that Fargo might be more comfortable speaking to him alone.

"I just came from talking to Judge Quinn," Anthony said when they were seated at a table in Fargo's tiny kitchen. "He said he talked to you last night, and you told him why Lamar and his son quarreled."

"It was okay to talk to him, wasn't it?" Fargo asked anxiously. "He's a judge."

"Oh, sure. No, you did the right thing. I just wanted to find out if there's anything else you remembered that you think is important."

Fargo hesitated. Anthony thought that she seemed agitated.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No, I . . ." Fargo could not meet Anthony's eye.

"Karen, if you know something that will help in this investigation, you've got to tell me. There have been three deaths already."

"I never lied. Everything I said to you and the grand jury was true, but . . ."

"Yes?"

Fargo looked desperate.

"Is it illegal if I was paid to come to see you? Would I be breaking the law?"

"Someone paid you to come forward?"

Fargo told Anthony about the visit from the man with the scar.

"How much were you paid?" Anthony asked when Fargo was through.

"Five thousand dollars."

"Did this man who visited you say who he was or who he was working for?"

"No, but I saw him again."

"Where?"

"On the evening news."

"Did the newscaster say his name?" Anthony asked excitedly.

"No. He was just someone in a news story, but . .

"Yes?"

"It was right after Judge Quinn suppressed the evidence. That's what the story was about. And this man, the one who came here, he looked like he was with Senator Gage."

[4]

The courthouse was deserted when Quinn arrived. He went directly to his chambers and put up a pot of coffee. While the coffee perked, Quinn went into his office and surveyed the paperwork that was strewn across the top of his desk. Most of it was from the motions in the Crease case. Quinn went back into the anteroom and looked through the filing cabinet behind Fran Stuart's desk. By the time he had pulled the files in the other cases that had to be dealt with, the coffee was ready.

Quinn poured himself a mug and shut the door to his office. After tuning his radio to a classical music station, the judge began organizing the documents on his desk into piles so he could return them to the file in State v. Crease with some sense of order. Quinn put a rubber band around the police reports that he had examined when he was deciding Cedric Riker's motion to exclude evidence of Martin Jablonski's criminal record. He was about to put them in the accordion file where he kept all of the documents pertaining to the motion when he noticed something that was written on the top report. Quinn slipped the report out from under the rubber band and examined it. It was the arresting officer's account of a six-year-old home burglary committed by Jablonski. His conviction for this crime had sent him to the penitentiary until his release last year. As Quinn reread the report his heartbeat accelerated. He tried to calm down so he could figure out what his discovery meant. When he was certain of his reasoning, Quinn phoned Ellen Crease.

"Crease residence," James Allen said.

"Mr. Allen, this is Judge Quinn. Is Senator Crease in?"

"Yes, sir."

Allen put Quinn on hold. When the phone came back to life, Ellen Crease was on the other end. Quinn told her about Junior's connection to Marie Ritter and what he had learned from Karen Fargo. Then Quinn explained his discovery of the police report and the conclusions he had drawn from it.

"My God," Crease said when Quinn was finished. "This is so hard to believe."

"But it makes sense."

"Yes, it does."

Crease sounded like she was in shock.

"What do you think we should do?" Quinn asked.

Crease thought for a moment.

"The courthouse is only a block from the Justice Center. Wait for me in your chambers. I'm coming down. We'll go to the police together."

While Quinn waited for Crease, he organized his files. The busywork helped him take his mind off the terrible events of the past few days. Periodically, Quinn checked the time. He thought it would take Crease about half an hour to drive downtown. Quinn had placed the call to Crease a little after three and it was already three-thirty. Quinn expected the phone to ring at any moment.

At three-fifty, Quinn heard the door between the anteroom and the corridor open. Quinn walked to the door to his chambers. He reached for the doorknob, then stopped himself. A peephole had been installed for security purposes. Through it, Quinn saw the man who had attacked him in the garage quietly closing the door to the corridor. His face was still concealed behind a ski mask and he was carrying a large hunting knife.

Quinn locked his door just as the man reached for the knob. Quinn saw the knob turn slowly. He backed against the desk. There was a second door in his chambers that opened onto the bench. Quinn realized that he could escape through it into the courtroom, then he could get out through the courtroom door.

Quinn started to leave when he remembered the gun that had been left on the hood of his car. It was in his desk drawer. He had meant to turn it over to the police, but he never had the chance. Quinn raced around the desk and got the gun. He had never fired one and had only a vague idea, picked up from television and the movies, of how to shoot it, but he felt better holding the weapon.

Quinn opened the door behind the bench as quietly as possible and slipped into the courtroom. He closed the door silently and crept down the stairs from the bench to the bar of the court, praying that the person in his anteroom would not think of his escape route.

Rain clouds had darkened the sky and very litde light came through the courtroom windows. The weak light that illuminated the courthouse corridor seeped into the courtroom. The empty benches were cloaked in shadow. Quinn hurried to the door. It was locked, but he had the key. As he stepped into the corridor, the door to his chambers opened and he and his attacker were suddenly face-to-face.

Both men paused for a second. Then the man in the mask took a step toward Quinn. Quinn pointed his weapon down the corridor and fired. In the narrow confines of the marble hallway the gunshot roared like a cannon. Quinn's aim was terrible. The bullet ricocheted crazily as it bounced off the walls. The man ducked back into Quinn's chambers.

The courthouse was a square. The fifth floor consisted of four corridors built around an open center. At the front of the courthouse were the elevators and broad steps that led down to the front door. Quinn wanted to run down those stairs, but that would mean passing the door to his chambers, so he headed to the hall in the rear of the courthouse. There, two enclosed staircases at either end of the hall went down to the back corridor on the first floor. If he could make it to the first floor, Quinn could run into a tiny alcove where he would find the elevator that went up to the courthouse jail. If he got that far, he could call for help through an intercom on the wall of the alcove. Armed corrections deputies would be moments away.

Quinn took off. As he rounded the corner, he heard pounding footsteps racing after him. Quinn flung open the door to the near stairwell and leaped down the steps. He slipped on the third-floor landing and slid down half a flight before checking himself. In the second it took Quinn to regain his feet, he strained to hear his pursuer and thought he heard the sound of feet descending.

Quinn hit the bottom stair. The corridor in the back of the courthouse was dimly lit. He held his gun in front of him. His stomach was cramped and his breathing grew ragged. His senses were intensified. All he had to do was make it to the end of the hall.

Quinn sprinted for the alcove. The moment he reached it the door to the other stairwell flew open and the man in the ski mask ran into the hall. Quinn had been certain that he had heard footsteps in the stairwell he had just descended. Could there be two people hunting him? Before he could consider the question, the masked man sprang. Quinn backpedaled into the alcove and raised his gun, which was halfway up when the knife struck it. The impact jarred the gun and the knife loose and sent Quinn stumbling backward. He tripped on his own feet and fell heavily to the floor. His head smacked against the wall. Quinn's eyes wouldn't focus. He shook his head. When his vision returned, Quinn saw that the masked man was holding the gun.

Time slowed to a crawl and a feeling of overwhelming calm flooded through Quinn as he accepted his death. He saw the attacker sight down the barrel of the gun. His eyes locked on Quinn's. Then there was an explosion. The assailant's knees buckled, the gun fell and the front of the ski mask dampened with blood. There was a second shot. Quinn tried to push his way through the wall. The attacker collapsed at Quinn's feet and Ellen Crease stepped into the alcove holding a smoking .38-caliber revolver.

The jail elevator opened and two men stepped into the alcove. They were dressed in the light green shirt and dark green pants worn by the Multnomah County Corrections deputies. The first person out was Sergeant Art Bradford, a huge man with a marine crew cut who had been in Quinn's court guarding prisoners on many occasions. Clyde Fellers, the second deputy, was a black man with massive arms, a thick neck and a gut who had played football for Portland State. Bradford and Fellers stared at the dead man. Then they stared at Quinn, who was slumped on a bench outside the alcove.

"The judge is okay. He's just shaken up," Ellen Crease said.

Quinn looked up. He was pale and spoke softly.

"The dead man attacked me in the parking garage two days ago. He just broke into my chambers and chased me downstairs. Senator Crease shot him."

"I was supposed to meet Judge Quinn in his chambers," Crease explained. "I took the elevator up to the fifth floor. Someone raced around the far corner of the hall just as I came into the corridor where the judge's courtroom is located. No one was in the judge's chambers, so I ran down the back stairs looking for him."

Crease stopped her narrative. She looked as bad as Quinn.

"I had to shoot. He was aiming at the judge."

"Someone should call Portland Homicide," Quinn said. "Ask them to send Detectives Lou Anthony and Leroy Dennis over here. This is connected to one of their cases. And make sure that Anthony and Dennis are told that I know who murdered Lamar Hoyt."

"You can turn him over now," Dr. Marilyn Kinsey, the assistant medical examiner, said to Sergeant Bradford. Quinn, Detectives Anthony and Dennis, Ellen Crease and the other people in the group surrounding the dead man waited expectantly as Bradford rolled the corpse onto its back. Kinsey knelt down and slowly peeled back the ski mask.

"Looks like you were right," Anthony told Quinn.

The judge looked down on the lifeless face of Jack Brademas.

"Let's go up to your courtroom so you can show us that report," Dennis suggested.

Anthony, Dennis, Crease and Quinn went up to the fifth floor. Quinn preceded everyone into his courtroom and switched on the lights. While the others sat at the counsel table that Garrett and Crease had used during the hearing, Quinn went into his chambers through the door behind the bench and retrieved the document that had cleared up the case for him.

"Why don't you tell us how you figured out that Jack Brademas was involved, Judge?" Dennis said as soon as Quinn laid the police report of Martin Jablonski's home burglary on the table. The report was the one he had just finished reading last Sunday when the police detective called to see if Quinn could provide information about the disappearance of Andrea Chapman. It was only while Quinn waited for the police to arrive at the courthouse that the judge realized that the man on the line could not have been a police detective. The incident on St. Jerome had been staged. Andrea Chapman never existed and Marie Ritter did not disappear on St. Jerome. The call from the phony detective was part of the plan to unnerve him so that he would be easy prey for the blackmailer. The caller had probably been Jack Brademas.

"This is the police report of the arrest that sent Martin Jablonski to prison this last time," Quinn said. "This was the crime for which he was serving time until he was paroled last year. It was a brutal home invasion. A nighttime burglary accompanied by a violent assault on the homeowners. Take a look at the report."

Anthony and Dennis studied the handwritten report. They looked confused.

"I don't see ... ," Anthony started. Then he looked as if he had been shot. He pointed at the bottom of the report where the arresting officer had signed his name.

"J. Brademas," Dennis said out loud.

"Exacdy," Quinn said. "Brademas knew Jablonski. He arrested him. I think he hired Jablonski to break into the Hoyt mansion and kill Lamar Hoyt and Senator Crease. If Jablonski was caught later, the crime would fit his M. O., but Brademas was probably going to murder Jablonski after Jablonski committed the double murder at the estate."

"I've been sick ever since Judge Quinn told me about the report," Crease said. "Jack was my friend. I helped him get his job and Lamar treated him very well. Why did he do it?"

"I think I can answer that, Senator," Lou Anthony said. "Your husband suspected Junior of embezzling from the mortuary business. He had Jack Brademas investigate. My guess is that Brademas went to Junior and made a proposal. He would arrange to have you and your husband murdered for a cut of the estate. The plan must have looked great on paper. Junior had no ties to Jablonski and Jablonski was known for this type of violent crime. But neither Brademas nor Junior counted on you killing Jablonski."

"Our problem now will be proving that Junior was Brademas's partner."

Dennis stood up. "You people have been through enough for one night. Wait here and Til see if there's any reason to keep you further."

Dennis left and Crease slumped in her seat. She looked exhausted;

"I still can't believe that Jack was behind all this. I've known him for years."

"If Junior confesses, maybe you can salvage your election campaign," Quinn said in an attempt to cheer up Crease.

"Winning the primary seems less and less important to me, Dick. I've lost Lamar. Now I find out I've been betrayed by someone I really trusted. Besides, I'm so far down in the polls . . ."

Crease smiled sadly and shook her head. The courtroom door opened and Dennis returned.

"You can go," the detective said, "but you'll have to run the gauntlet. Someone notified the press."

Quinn walked toward the courtroom door. Crease started to follow him, but Anthony stopped her and said, "Wait a minute, Ellen. I know I put you through hell by arresting you."

"I don't hold it against you. You thought you were doing the right thing."

"I did, but I might have cost you the campaign, so I figure I owe you one. I need your promise that you won't reveal where you got this information."

Crease gave it.

"Karen Fargo was paid five thousand dollars to tell her story to me."

"Who did it?"

Anthony repeated Fargo's description. As soon as he mentioned the scar, Crease said, "That's Ryan Clark, Benjamin Gage's A. A., and he doesn't spit without Gage's say-so. If he bribed Fargo, Gage is behind it."